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THE 


HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CLIFF 


BY 

Mrs.  may  AGNES  FLEMING 

AUTHOR  OF  "  MAGDALEN'S   VOW,"    "  THE  vQUEEN   OF  THE   ISLE,"  "  THB 

DARK   SECRET,"    '*  THE   RIVAL  BROTHERS,"    "  THE  GYPSY 

queen's  vow,"  "THE  MIDNIGHT  QUEEN,"   ETC. 


■  •-•-?&.; 


-/:■ 


NEW  YORK      ^ 

THE  FEDERAI,  BOOK  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1875, 
BEADLE  Sc  ADAMS. 


^BRAR 


«;J  VJ  I  u 


^^sny 


m  I 


ciM 


CONTENTS. 


% 


CHAPTER  PAGB 

I.  At  the  Theater S 

II.  Mother  and  Son 15 

III.  The  Heiress  of  Castle  Cliffe 21 

IV.  Twelve  Years  A  f ter 29 

V.  The  Prodigal  Son 41 

VI.  Killing  the  Fatted  Calf 51 

VII.  Mademoiselle , .  58 

VIII.  Castle  Cliffe 70 

IX.  Victoria  Regia 79 

X.  Barbara 86 

XI.  The  First  Time 93 

XII.  The  Nun's  Grave 101 

XIII.  The  May  Queen no 

XIV.  The  Warning 125 

XV.  The  Shadow  in  Black 136 

XVI.  The  Rose  of  Sussex 145 

XVII.  Off  with  the  Old  Love, 155 

XVIII.  A  Dutiful  Granddaughter. 168 

XIX.  Back  Again 179 

XX.  Accepted « 193 

XXI.  Barbara's  Bridal  Eve 204 

XXII.  Asking  for  Bread  and  Receiving  a  Stone 217 

XXIII.  Victoria's  Bridal  Eve 226 

XXIV.  Where  the  Bridegroom  Was * 236 

XXV.  A  Strange  Request ^45 

XXVI.  Diamond  cut  Diamond 255 

XXVII.  What  Lay  on  the  Nun's  Grave 265 

XXVIII.  Maison  de  DeuU 275 

XXIX.  The  Sentence ....     » E85 

XXX.  The  Sentence 293 

XXXI.  The  Turn  of  the  Wheel 297 

XXXII.  Retribution 307 

XXXin.  The  Fall  of  the  Curtain 313 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CLIFFE. 


CHAPTER  1. 


AT  THE  THEATER,  '^ 

The  theater  was  crowded.  The  pit,  reeking  and  steam- 
ing, was  one  swaying  sea  of  human  faces.  The  galleries 
were  vivid  semicircles  of  eyes,  blue,  black,  brown  and  gray ; 
and  the  boxes  and  the  upper  tiers  were  rapidly  filling,  for 
was  not  this  the  benefit-night  of  Mademoiselle  Vivia  ?  and 
had  not  all  the  theater-going  world  of  London  been  half  mad 
about  Mademoiselle  Vivia  ever  since  her  first  appearance 

on  the  boards  of  the theater  ?     Posters  and  play-bills 

announced  it  her  benefit.  Madam  Rumor  announced  it  her 
last  appearance  on  any  stage.  There  were  wonderful  tales 
going  about  this  same  Vivia,  the  actress.  Her  beauty  was 
an  undisputed  fact  by  all ;  so  was  her  marvelous  talent  in 
her  profession ;  and  her  icy  virtue  was  a  household  word. 
Every  one  in  the  house  probably  knew  what  was  to  be  known 
of  her  history — how  the  manager  of  the  house  stumbled 
upon  her  accidentally  in  an  obscure,  third-rate  Parisian 
playhouse ;  how,  struck  by  her  beauty  and  talent,  he  had 
taken  her  away,  had  her  instructed  for  two  years,  and  how, 
at  the  end  of  that  time,  three  months  previous  to  this  par- 
ticular night,  she  had  made  her  dkbut^  and  taken  the  gay 
people  of  London  by  storm.  Gouty  old  dukes  and  apoplectic 
earls  had  knelt  in  dozens  at  her  feet,  with  offers  of  magnifi- 
cent settlements,  superb  diamonds,  no  end  of  blank  checks, 
carriages  and  horses,  and  a  splendid  establishment,  and  been 
spurned  for  their  pains.  Mademoiselle  Vivia  had  won, 
during  her  professional  career,  something  more  than  admira- 
tion and  love — the  respect  of  all,  young  and  old.  And  yet 
that  same  gossiping  lady,  Madam  Rumor,  whispered  low, 

5 


( 


6  THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CUFFE. 

that  the  actress  had  managed  to  lose  her  heart  after  all. 
Madam  Rumor  softly  insinuated,  that  a  young  nobleman, 
marvelously  beautiful  to  look  upon,  and  marvelously  rich  to 
back  it,  had  laid  his  heart,  hand  and  name  most  honorably 
and  romantically  at  her  fair  feet ;  but  people  took  the  whis- 
per for  what  it  was  worth,  and  were  a  little  dubious  about 
believmg  it  implicitly.  No  one  was  certain  of  anything ;  and 
yet  the  knowing  ones  raised  their  glasses  with  a  peculiar 
smile  to  ascertain  the  stage-box  occupied  by  three  young 
men,  and  with  an  inward  conviction  that  the  secret  lay  there. 
One  of  the  three  gentlemen  sitting  in  it— a  large,  well-made, 
good-looking  personage  of  thirty  or  so — was  sweeping  the 
house  himself,  lorgnette  in  hand,  bowing,  and  smiling,  and 
criticizing. 

"  And  there  comes  that  old  ogre.  Marquis  of  Devon, 
rouged  to  the  eyes,  and  that  stiff  antediluvian  on  his  arm, 
all  pearl-powder  and  pearls,  false  ringlets  and  more  rouge,  is 
his  sister.  There  goes  that  oily  little  cheat,  Sylvester  Sweet,  , 
among  the  swells,  as  large  as  life  ;  and  there's  Miss  Blanche 
Chester  with  her  father.     Pretty  little  thing,  isn't  she,  Lisle  ?  " 

The  person  thus  addressed — a  very  tall,  very  thin,  very 
pale  and  very  insipid-looking  young  person,  most  stylishly 
got  up,  regardless  of  expense,  leaned  forward,  and  stared  out 
of  a  pair  of  very  dull  and  very  expressionless  gray  eyes,  at 
an  exceedingly  pretty  and  graceful  girl, 

"  Aw,  yes  I  Very  pretty  indeed  I  "  he  lisped,  with  a  lan- 
guid drawl ;  "  and  has  more  money,  they  say,  than  she  knows 
what  to  do  with.  Splendid  catch,  eh  ?  But  look  there. 
Who  are  those  ?     By  Jove  I  what  a  handsome  woman  1 " 

The  attention  of  Lord  Lisle — for  the  owner  of  the  dull 
eyes  and  lantern  jaws  was  that  distinguished  gentleman — 
had  been  drawn  to  a  party  who  had  just  entered  the  box 
opposite.  They  were  two  ladies,  three  gentlemen,  and  a  lit- 
tle child,  and  Sir  Roland  Cliffe.  The  first  speaker  leaning 
over  to  see,  opened  his  eyes  very  wide,  with  a  low  whistle 
of  astonishment.  i 

"  Such  a  lovely  face  I  Such  a  noble  head  1  Such  a  grand 
air  I  "  raved  young  Lord  Lisle,  whose  heart  was  as  inflam- 
mable as  a  lucifer  match,  and  caught  fire  as  easily. 

Sir  Roland  raised  his  shoulders  and  eyebrows  together, 
and  stroked  his  flowing  beard 


AT  THE  THEATER. 


"  Which  one  ? "  he  coolly  asked.  Belle  blonde^  or  jolie  bru- 
nette 1  *' 

'•  The  lady  in  pink  satin  and  diamonds  I  Such  splendid 
eyes  I  Such  a  manner  1  Such  grace  1  She  might  be  a  prin- 
cess I  " 

Hearing  this,  the  third  occupant  of  the  bo"-  leaned  for- 
ward also,  from  the  lazy,  recumbent  position  he  had  hitherto 
indulged  in,  and  glanced  across  the  way.  He  looked  the 
younger  of  the  two — slender  and  boyish — and  evidently  not 
more  than  nineteen  or  twenty,  wearing  the  undress  uniform 
of  a  lieutenant  of  dragoons,  which  set  off  his  eminently-hand- 
some face  and  figure  to  the  best  possible  advantage.  He, 
too,  opened  his  large  blue  Saxon  eyes  slightly,  as  they  rested 
on  the  object  of  Lord  Lisle's  raptures,  and  exchanged  a 
smile  with  Sir  Roland  Cliffe.  - 

The  lady  thus  unconsciously  apostrophized  and  stared  at 
was  lying  back  in  her  chair,  and  fanning  herself  very  much 
at  her  ease.  It  was  a  blonde  face  of  the  purest  type ;  the 
skin,  satin-smooth  and  white ;  the  blue  veins  scarcely  trace- 
able under  the  milk-white  surface ;  the  oval  cheeks  tinged  with 
the  faintest  shade  of  rose,  deepening  into  vividness  in  the 
thin  lips.  The  eyes  were  large,  blue  and  bright — very  coldly 
bright  though ;  the  eyebrows  light  and  indistinct ;  and  the 
hair,  which  was  of  a  flaxen  fairness,  was  rolled  back  from 
the  beautiful  face,  d  la  Marie  Stuart.  Light  hair,  fair  blue, 
eyes,  and  colorless  complexion  usually  make  up  rather  an  in- 
sipid style  of  prettiness  ;  but  this  lady  was  not  at  all  insipid. 
The  eyes,  placed  close  together,  had  a  look  of  piercing  intent- 
ness ;  the  thin  lips,  decidedly  compressed,  had  an  air  of 
resolute  determination ;  and  from  the  crown  of  her  flaxen 
head  to  the  sole  of  her  sandaled  foot,  she  looked  as  high  and 
haughty  as  any  lady  in  the  land.  Her  dress  was  pale  rose 
satin,  with  a  profusion  of  rare  old  point,  yellow  as  saffron 
with  age,  and  precious  as  rubies.  Diamonds  ran  like  a  river 
of  light  round  the  beautiful  arched  neck,  and  blazed  on  the 
large,  snow-white,  rounded  arms.  Her  fan  was  of  gold  and 
ebony,  and  marabout  feathers ;  and  she  managed  it  with  a 
hand  like  Hebe's  own.  One  dainty  foot,  peeping  out  from 
under  the  rosy  skirt,  showed  the  arched  instep,  tapering 
ankle  and  rounded  flexibility,  of  the  same  type ;  and,  to  her 
fingers'  tips,  she  looked  the  lady.     Her  age  it  was  impossible 


8 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CUFFH. 


to  guess,  for  old  Time  deals  gallantly  with  those  flaxen-haired, 
pearly-skinned  beauties,  and  Lord  Lisle  could  not  have  told, 
for  his  life,  whether  to  set  her  down  as  twenty  or  thirty. 
She  certainly  did  not  look  demoiselle  ;  and  her  figure,  though 
tall  and  slight,  and  delicate,  was  unmistakably  matured  ;  and 
then  her  style  of  dress,  and  the  brilliant  opera-cloak  of  scar- 
let and  white,  slipping  off  her  shoulders,  was  matured  too. 
Sha  and  her  companion  formed  as  striking  a  contrast  as 
could  be  met  with  in  the  house.  For  the  latter  was  a  pro- 
nonrh  brunette,  and  a  very  full-blown  brunette  at  that,  with 
lazy,  rolling  black  eyes,  a  profusion  of  dead-black  hair,  worn 
in  braids  and  bandeaux,  and  entwined  with  pearls  ;  her  large 
and  showy^ person  was  arrayed  in  slight  mourning;  but  her 
handsome,  rounded,  high-colored  face  was  breaking  into 
smiles  every  other  instant,  as  her  lazy  eyes  strayed  from  face 
to  face  as  she  bent  to  greet  her  friends.  A  lovely  little  boy, 
of  some  six  years,  richly  dressed,  with  long  golden  curls  fall- 
ing over  his  shoulders,  and  splendid  dark  eyes  straying  like 
her  own  around  the  house,  leaned  lightly  against  her  knee. 
They  were  mother  and  son,  though  they  looked  little  like  it ; 
and  Mrs.  Leicester  Cliffe  was  a  buxom  widow  of  five  and 
twenty.  The  black,  roving  eyes  rested  at  last  on  the  op- 
posite box,  and  the  incessant  smile  came  over  the  Dutch 
face  as  she  bowed  to  one  of  the  gentlemen — Sir  Roland  Cliffe. 

"  How  grandly  she  sits  I — how  beautiful  she  is  1  "  broke 
out  Lord  Lisle,  in  a  fresh  ecstasy.  "  Who  in  the  world  is 
she,  Sir  Roland  ?  " 

"  You  had  better  ask  my  beloved  nephew  here,"  said  Sir 
Roland,  with  a  careless  motion  toward  the  young  officer, 
"  and  ask  him  at  the  same  time  how  he  would  like  you  for  a 
stepfather."  -  ' 

Lord  Lisle  stared  from  one  to  the  other,  and  then  at  the 
fair  lady  aghast, 

"Why — how — you  don't  mean  to  say  that  it  is  Lady 
Agnes  Shirley  ? " 

"  But  I  do,  though  1  Is  it  possible.  Lisle,  that  you,  a 
native  of  Sussex  yourself,  have  never  seen  my  sister?  " 

"  I  never  have  I  "  exclaimed  Lord  Lisle,  with  a  look  of 
hopeless    amazement ;    "  and   that   is  really  your   mother, 
Shirley?" 
^    The   lieutenant   of  dragoons  who  was  sitting  in  such  a 


AT  THE  THEATER. 


position  that  the  curtain  screened  him  completely  from  the 
audience,  while  it  commanded  a  full  view  of  the  stage,  nod- 
ded with  a  half  laugh,  and  Lord  Lisle's  astonished  bewilder- 
ment was  a  sight  to  sec. 

*'  But  she  is  so  young ;  she  does  not  look  over  twenty." 

•'  She  is  eight  years  older  than  I,  and  I  am  verging  on 
thirty,"  said  Sir  Roland,  taking  out  a  penknife  and  beginning 
to  pare  his  nails ;  "  but  those  blondes  never  grow  old. 
What  do  you  think  of  the  black  beauty  beside  her  ?  " 

"  She  is  fat  1 "  said  Lord  Lisle  with  gravity. 

"My  dear  fellow,  don't  apply  that  term  to  a  lady;  say 
plump,  or  inclined  to  embonpoint  I  She  is  rather  of  the 
Dutch  make,  I  confess,  but  we  can  pardon  that  in  a  widow, 
and  you  must  own  she's  a  splendid  specimen  of  the  Low 
Country  Flemish  style  of  loveliness.  Paul  Rubens,  for  in- 
stance, would  h^ve  gone  mad  about  her  ;  perhaps  you  have 
never  noticed,  though,  as  you  do  not  much  affect  the  fine 
arts,  that  all  his  Madonnas  and  Venuses  have  the  same 
plentiful  supply  of  blood,  and  brawn,  and  muscle,  that  our 
fair  relative  yonder  rejoices  in."  -      • 

"  She  is  your  relative,  then  ?  " 

"  Leicester  Cliffe,  rest  his  soul  I  was  my  cousin.  That 
is  her  son  and  heir,  that  little  shaver  beside  her — fine  little 
fellow,  isn't  he  ?  and  a  Cliffe,  every  inch  of  him.  What  are 
you  thinking  of,  Cliffe  ?  " 

"  Were  you  speaking  to  me  ? "  said  the  lieutenant,  look- 
ing up  abstractedly. 

"  Yes.  I  want  to  know  what  makes  you  so  insufferably 
stupid  to-night  ?     Wltat  are  you  thinking  of,  man — Vivia  ?  " 

The  remark  might  be  nearer  the  truth  than  the  speaker 
thought,  for  a  slight  flush  rose  to  the  girl-like  cheek  of 
Lieutenant  Cliffe  Shirley. 

"  Nonsense  1  I  was  half  asleep,  I  believe.  I  wish  the 
curtain  was  up,  and  the  play  well  over." 

"  I  have  heard  that  this  is  Vivia's  last  night,"  remarked 
Lord  Lisle ;  "  and  that  she  is  about  to  be  married,  or  some- 
thing of  that  sort.  How  is  it,  Sir  Roland  ?  as  you  know 
everything  you  must  know." 

"  I  don't  know  that,  at  all  events  ;  but  he  is  a  lucky  man, 
whoever  gets  her.  Ah  1  what  a  pretty  little  thing  it  is  I 
By  Jove  I  I  never  see  her  without  feeling  inclined  to  go  on 


■u 


't 


) 


1'    H 


lO 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CLIFFE. 


my   knees,   and   say —     Ah  1  Sweet  I  old   fellow,   how   are 

you  ?  "  " 

This  last  passage  in  the  noble  baronet's  discourse  was 
not  what  he  would  say  to  Mdlle.  Vivia,  but  was  addressed 
to  a  gentleman  who  had  forced  his  way,  with  some  difficulty, 
through  the  crowd,  and  now  stood  at  the  door.  He  was 
net  a  handsome  man,  was  Mr.  Sweet,  but  he  had  the  most 
smiling  and  beaming  expression  of  countenance  imaginable. 
He  was  of  medium  size,  inclined  to  be  angular  and  sharp  at 
the  joints,  with  a  complexion  so  yellow  as  to  induce  the 
belief  ♦'lat  he  was  suffering  from  chronic,  and  continual 
jaundice.  His  hair,  what  was  of  it,  was  much  the  color  of 
his  face,  but  he  had  nothing  in  that  line  worth  speaking 
of ;  his  eyes  were  small  and  twinkling,  and  generally  half 
closed ;  and  he  displayed,  like  the  blooming  relic  of  the 
late  lamented  Leicester  Cliffe,  the  sweetest  and  most  cease- 
less of  smiles.  His  waistcoat  was  of  a  bright  canary  tint, 
much  the  color  of  his  face  and  hair ;  lemon-colored  gloves 
were  on  his  hands  ;  and  the  yellow  necktie  stood  out  in 
bold  relief  against  the  whitest  and  glossiest  of  shirt  collars. 
He  wore  large  gold  studs,  and  a  large  geld  breast-pin,  a 
large  gold  watch-chain,  with  an  anchor,  and  a  heart,  and  a 
bunch  of  seals,  and  a  select  assortment  of  similar  small 
articles  of  jewelry  dangling  from  it,  and  keeping  up  a  musi- 
cal tinkle  as  he  walked.  He  had  small  gold  ear-rings  in  his 
ears,  and  would  have  had  them  in  his  nose,  too,  doubtless, 
if  any  one  had  been  good  enough  to  set  him  a  precedent. 
As  it  was,  he  was  so  bright,  and  so  smiling,  and  so  glisten- 
ing, with  his  yellow  hair,  and  face,  and  waistcoat,  and  neck- 
tie, and  jewelry,  that  he  fairly  scintillated  all  over,  and  would 
have  made  you  wink  to  look  at  him  by  gaslight. 

"  Hallo,  Sweet !  How  do,  Sweet  ?  Come  in.  Sweet,** 
greeted  this  smiling  vision  from  the  three  young  men.  And 
Mr.  Sweet  beaming  all  over  with  smiles,  and  jingling  his 
seals,  did  come  in,  and  took  a  seat  between  the  handsome 
young  lieutenant  and  his  uncle,  Sir  Roland. 

The  orchestra  was  crashing  out  a  tremendous  overture, 
but  at  this  moment  a  bell  tinkled,  and  when  it  ceased,  the 
curtain  shriveled  up  to  the  ceiling,  and  disclosed  "  Henry 
Vin.,"  a  very  stout  gentleman,  in  flesh-colored  tights,  scarlet 
velvet  doublet,  profusely  ornamented  with  tinsel  and  gold 


AT  THE  THEATER. 


IX 


lace,  wearing  a  superb  crown  of  pasteboard  and  gilt  paper 
on  his  royal  head.  Catherine,  of  Aragon,  was  there,  too, 
very  grand,  in  a  long  trailing  dress  of  purple  cotton  and  vel- 
vet, and  blazing  all  over  with  brilliants  of  the  purest  glass, 
kneeling  before  her  royal  husband,  amidst  a  brilliant  as- 
sembly of  gentlemen  in  tights  and  mustaches,  and  ladies  in 
very  long  dresses  and  paste  jewels,  in  the  act  of  receiving  a 
similar  pasteboard  crown  from  the  fat  hands  of  the  king 
himself.  The  play  was  the  "  Royal  Blue  Beard,"  a  sort  of 
half  musical,  half-danceable  burlesque,  and  though  the  audi- 
ence laughed  a  good  deal,  and  applauded  a  little  over  the 
first  act,  their  enthusiasm  did  not  quite  bring  the  roof  down  ; 
for  Vivia  was  not  there.  Her  rble  was  "  Anne  Boleyn," 
and  when  in  the  second  act,  that  beautiful  and  most  un- 
fortunate lady  appeared  among  the  maids  of  honor,  "  which 
meaneth,"  says  an  ancient  writer,  "  anything  but  honorable 
maids,"  to  win  the  fickle-hearted  monarch  by  her  smiles,  a 
cheer  greeted  her  that  made  the  house  ring.  She  was  their 
pet,  their  favorite ;  and  standing  among  her  painted  com- 
panions, all  tinseled  and  spangled,  she  looked  queen-rose  and 
star  over  all.  Petite  and  f?iry-like  in  figure,  a  clear,  color- 
less complexion,  lips  vividly  red,  eyes  jetty  black,  and  bright 
as  stars,  shining  black  hair,  falling  in  a  profusion  of  curls 
and  waves  far  below  her  waist,  and  with  a  smile  like  an 
angel  I  She  was  dressed  all  in  white,  with  flowers  in  her 
hair  and  on  her  breast ;  and  when  she  came  floating  across 
the  stage  in  her  white,  mist-like  robes,  her  pure  pale  face, 
uplifted  dark  eyes,  and  wavy  hair,  crowned  with  water-lilies, 
she  looked  more  like  a  fairy  by  moonlight  than  a  mere  crea- 
ture of  flesh  and  blood.  What  a  shout  it  was  that  greeted 
her  I  how  gentle  and  sweet  was  the  smile  that  answered  it  1 
and  how  celestial  she  looked  with  that  smile  on  her  lips ! 
Sir  Roland  leaned  over  with  flashing  eyes. 

"  It  is  a  fairy  I  it  is  Titania !  It  is  Venus  herself  I  "  he 
cried,  enraptured.  "  I  never  saw  her  look  so  beautiful  before 
in  my  life." 

Loid  Lisle  stared  at  him  in  his  dull,  vacant  way ;  and  Mr. 
Sweet  smiled,  and  stole  a  sidelong  glance  at  the  lieutenant, 
which  nonchalant  young  warrior  lounged  easily  back  on  his 
seat,  and  watched  the  silver-shining  vision  with  philosophical 
composure.  -^ 


k  ) 


12 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CI.IFFE. 


I 


The  play  went  on.  The  lovely  Anne  wins  the  slightly- 
fickle  king  with  her  "  becks,  and  nods,  and  wreathed  smiles," 
and  triumphs  over  the  unfortunate  lady  in  the  purple  train. 
Then  comes  her  own  brief  and  dazz'ng  term  of  glory;  then 
blue-eyed  Jane  Seymour  conquers  the  conqueress,  and  Mis- 
tress Anne  is  condemned  to  die.  Throughout  the  whole  thing 
Vivia  was  superb.  Vivia  always  was  ;  but  in  the  last  scene 
of  all  she  surpassed  herself.  From  the  moment  when  she  told 
the  executioner,  with  a  gay  laugh,  that  she  heard  he  was 
expert,  and  she  had  but  a  small  neck,  to  the  moment  she 
was  led  forth  to  die,  she  held  the  audience  spellbound. 
When  the  curtain  rose  in  the  last  scene,  the  stage  was  hung 
in  black,  the  lights  burned  dim,  the  music  waxed  faint  and 
low,  and  dressed  in  deepest  mourning,  and  looking  by  contrast 
deadly  pale,  she  laid  her  beautiful  head  on  the  block.  At 
the  sound  of  the  falling  ax,  as  the  curtain  fell,  a  thrill  ran 
through  every  heart ;  and  the  four  gentlemen  in  the  stage-box 
bent  over  and  gazed  with  their  hearts — such  as  they  were — 
in  their  eyes.  A  moment  of  profoundest  silence  was  followed 
by  so  wild  a  tempest  of  applause  that  the  domed  roof  rang, 
and  "  Vivia  !"  "  Vivia  !  "  shouted  a  storm  of  voices,  enthusi- 
astically. Once  again  she  came  before  them,  pale  and  beau- 
tiful in  her  black  robes  and  flowing  hair,  and  bowed  her 
acknowledgments  with  the  same  lovely  smile  that  had  won 
all  their  hearts  long  before.  A  small  avalanche  of  bouquets 
and  wreaths  came  fluttering  down  on  the  stage,  and  three  of 
the  occupants  of  the  stage-box  flung  their  offerings  too.  A 
wreath  of  white  roses  clasped  by  a  great  pearl,  from  Sir 
Roland ;  a  bouquet  of  splendid  hot-house  exotics  from  Lord 
Lisle;  and  a  cluster  of  jasmine  flowers  from  Lieutenant 
Shirley,  which  he  took  from  his  buttonhole  for  the  purpose. 
Mr.  Sweet  had  nothing  to  cast  but  his  eyes;  and  casting 
those  optics  on  the  actress,  he  saw  her  turn  her  beautiful  face 
for  one  instant  toward  their  box  ;  the  next,  lift  the  jasmine 
flowers  and  raise  them   to  her  lips ;  and  the  next — vanish. 

"  She  took  your  flowers,  Shirley — she  actually  did,"  cried 
Lord  Liole,  with  one  of  hi.  blank  stares ;  "  and  left  mine, 
that  were  a  thousand  times  prettier,  just  where  they 
felll"  ,        ., 

"  Very  extraordinary,"  remarked  Mr.  Sweet,  with  one  of 
his  bright  smiles  and  sidelong  glances.     "  But  what  do  all 


I 


AT  THE  THEATER. 


y.*V' 


13 


the  good  folks  mean  by  leaving .'  I  thought  there  was  to 
be  a  farce,  or  ballet,  or  something."  -    - 

"  So  there  is  ;  but  as  they  won't  see  Vivia,  they  don't  cr.re 
for  staying.  And  I  think  the  best  thing  we  can  do  is  to 
follow  their  example.  What  do  you  say  to  coming  along 
with  us.  Sweet  ?  We  are  going  to  have  a  small  supper  at 
my  rooms  this  evening." 

Mr.  Sweet,  with  many  smiles,  made  his  acknowledgments, 
and  accepted  at  once ;  and  rising,  the  four  passed  out,  and 
were  borne  along  by  the  crowd  into  the  open  air.  Sir 
Roland's  night-cab  was  in  waiting,  and  being  joined  by 
three  or  four  other  young  men,  they  were  soon  dashing  at 
breakneck  speed  toward  a  West-End  hotel. 


No  man  in  all  London  ever  gave  such  petits  soupers  as 
Sir  Roland  Cliffe,  and  no  one  ever  thought  of  declining  his 
invitations.  On  the  present  occasion,  the  hilarity  waxed 
fast  and  furious.  The  supper  was  a  perfect  chef  d  ^odtivrCy 
the  claret  deliciously  cool  after  the  hot  theater ;  the  slierry 
like  liquid  gold,  and  the  port,  fifty  years  old,  at  least.  All 
showed  their  appreciation  of  it,  too,  by  draining  bumper 
after  bumper,  until  the  lights  of  the  room,  and  everything 
in  it,  were  dancing  hornpipes  before  their  eyes — all  but 
Mr.  Sweet  and  Lieutenant  Shirley.  Mr.  Sweet  drank  spar- 
ingly, and  had  a  smile  and  an  answer  for  everybody ;  and 
the  lieutenant  scarcely  ate  or  drank  at  all,  and  was  abstracted 
and  silent. 

"  Do  look  at  Shirley !  "  hiccoughed  Lord  Lisle,  whose 
eyes  were  starting  f  :;hily  out  of  his  head,  and  whose  hair 
and  shirt-front  were  splashed  with  wine ;  "  he  looks  as  sol — 
yes — as  solemn  as  a  coffin  1  " 

"Hallo,  Cliffe,  my  boy  I  don't  be  the  death's  head  at  the 
feast !  Here  1 "  shouted  Sir  Roland,  with  a  flushed  face, 
waving  his  glass  over  his  head — "  here,  lads,  is  a  bumper  to 
Vivia  1  " 

"Vivia!"  "Vi^ia!"  ran  from  lip  to  lip.  Even  Mr. 
Sweet  rose  to  honor  the  toast ;  but  Lieutenant  Shirley,  with 
wrinkled  brows  and  flashing  eyes,  sat  still,  and  glanced 
round  at  the  servant  who  stood  at  his  elbow  with  a  salver 
and  a  letter  thereon. 


V 

I 


i 


14 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CUFFE. 


"  Note  for  you,  lieutenant,"  insinuated  the  waiter.  "  A 
little  boy  brought  it  here.  Said  there  was  no  answer  ex- 
pected, and  left." 

"  I  say,  Cliffe,  what  have  you  there  ?  A  dun  ?  "  shouted 
impetuous  Sir  Roland. 

"  With  your  permission  I  will  see,"  rather  coolly  responded 
the  young  officer,  breaking  the  seal. 

Mr.  Sweet,  sitting  opposite,  kept  his  eyes  intently  fixed 
on  his  face,  and  saw  it  first  flush  scarlet,  and  then  turn 
deathly  white. 

"That's  no  dun,  I'll  swear,"  again  lisped  Lord  Lisle. 
"  Look  at  the  writing  1  A  fairy  could  scarcely  trace  any- 
thing so  light.  And  look  at  the  paper— pink-tinted  and 
gilt-edged.     The  fellow  has  got  a  M/^/-rt'<^/^^  .^  "    r        .         , 

"  Who  is  she,  Shirley  ?  "  called  half  a  dozen  voices. 

But  Lieutenant  Shirley  crumpled  the  note  in  his  hand, 
and  rose  abruptly  from  the  table. 

"Gentlemen — Sir  Roland — you  will  have  the  goodness 
to  excuse  me  !  I  regret  extremely  being  obliged  to  leave 
you.     Goodnighll" 

He  had  strode  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  disappeared 
before  any  of  the  company  had  recovered  their  maudlin 
senses  sufficiently  to  call  him  back.  Mr.  Sweet  always  had 
his  senses  about  him  ;  but  that  shining  gentleman  was  wise 
in  his  generation,  and  he  knew  when  Lieutenant  Shirley's 
cheek  paled,  and  brow  knitted,  and  eye  flashed,  he  was  not 
exactly  the  person  to  be  trifled  with;  so  he  only  looked 
after  him,  and  then  at  his  wine,  with  a  thoughtful  smile. 
He  would  have  given  all  the  spare  change  he  had  about 
him  to  have  donned  an  invisible  cap,  and  walked  after  him 
through  the  silent  streets,  dimly  lit  by  the  raw  coming  morn- 
ing, and  to  have  jumped  after  him  into  the  cab  Lieutenant 
Shirley  hailed  and  entered.  On  he  flew  through  the  still 
streets,  stopping  at  last  before  a  quiet  hotel  in  a  retired  part 
of  the  city.  A  muffled  figure — a  female  figure — wrapped  in 
a  long  cloak,  and  closely  veiled,  stood  near  the  ladies'  en- 
trance, shivering  under  her  wrappings  in  the  chill  morning 
blast.  In  one  instant.  Lieutenant  Shirley  had  sprung  out ; 
in  another,  he  had  assisted  her  in,  and  taken  the  reins  him- 
self; and  the  next,  he  was  riding  away  with  breakneck 
speed,  with  his  face  to  the  rising  sun. 


\-. 


MOTHER  AND  SON. 


X5 


^■■" 


CHAPTER  n. 


MOTHER   AND   SON. 


r 


A  BROAD  morning  simbeam,  stealing  in  through  satin 
curtains,  fell  on  a  Brussels  carpet,  on  rosewood  furniture, 
pretty  pictures,  easy-chairs  and  ottomans,  and  on  a  round 
table,  bright  with  damask,  and  silver,  and  china,  standing 
in  the  middle  of  the  handsome  parlor.  The  table  was  set 
for  breakfast,  and  the  coffee,  and  the  rolls,  and  the  toast, 
and  the  cold  tongue,  were  ready  and  waiting ;  but  no  one 
vras  in  the  room,  save  a  spruce  waiter,  in  a  white  jacket 
and  apron,  who  arranged  the  eggs,  and  tongue,  and  toast 
artistically,  and  set  up  two  chairs  vis-d-vis^  previous  to  tak- 
ing his  departure.  As  he  turned  to  go,  the  door  opened, 
and  a  lady  entered — a  lady  tall  and  graceful,  proud  and 
handsome,  with  her  fair  hair  combed  back  from  her  high- 
bred face,  and  adorned  with  the  prettiest  little  trifle  of  a 
morning-cap,  all  black  lace  and  ribbons.  She  wore  a  white 
cashmere  morning-dress,  with  a  little  lace  collar  and  a  ruby 
brooch,  and  Lady  Agnes  Shirley  managed  to  look  in  this 
simple  toilet  as  stately  and  haughty  as  a  dowager-duchess. 
Her  large  light-blue  eyes  wandered  round  the  room,  and 
rested  on  the  obsequious  young  gentleman  in  the  white 
jacket  and  apron. 

"  Has  my  son  not  arrived  yet  ?  "  she  said,  in  a  voice 
that  precisely  suited  her  face — sweet,  and  cold,  and  clear. 

"  No,  my  lady  ;  shall  I " 

"  You  will  go  down-stairs  ;  and  when  he  comes,  you  will 
ask  him  to  step  up  here  directly." 

There  was  a  quick,  decided  rap  at  the  door.  Agnes 
turned  from  the  window,  to  which  she  had  walked,  as  the 
waiter  opened  it,  and  admitted  Lieutenant  Cliffe  Shirley. 

"  My  dearest  mother  I  " 

"  My  dear  boy  1  "     And  the  proud,  cold  eyes  lit  up  with 


16        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CUFFE, 


I 


loving  pride  as  he  kissed  her.  '  I  thought  I  was  never 
destined  to  see  you  again." 

"  Let  me  see.  It  is  just  two  months  since  I  left  Clifton- 
lea — a  frightful  length  of  time,  truly."  '     ; 

"  My  dear  Cliffe,  those  two  months  .were  like  two  years  to 

me  !  " 

Lieutenant  Cliffe,  standing  hat  in  hand,  with  the  morning 
sunshine  falling  on  his  laughing  face  made  her  a  courtly 
bow. 

"  Ten  thousand  thanks  for  the  compliment,  mother  mine. 
And  was  it  to  hunt  up  your  scapegrace  son  that  you  jour- 
neyed all  the  way  to  London  ?  *' 

"  Yes  !  "  She  said  it  so  grave'y  that  the  smile  died  away 
on  his  lips,  as  she  moved  in  her  graceful  way  across  to  the 
table.  **  Have  you  had  breakfast  ?  But  of  course  you  have 
not ;  so  sit  down  there,  and  I  will  pour  out  your  coffee  as 
if  you  were  at  home." 

The  young  man  sat  down  opposite  her,  took  his  napkin 
from  its  ring,  and  spread  it  with  most  delicate  precision 
on  his  knees.  There  was  a  resemblance  between  mother 
and  son,  though  by  no  means  a  striking  one.  They  had 
the  same  blonde  hair,  large  blue  eyes,  and  fair  complexion — 
the  same  physical  Saxon  type ;  for  the  boast  of  the  Cliffes 
was,  that  not  one  drop  of  Celtic  or  Norman  blood  ran  in 
their  veins — it  was  a  pure,  unadulterated  Saxon  stream,  to 
be  traced  back  to  days  long  before  the  Conqueror  entered 
England.  But  Lady  Agnes'  haughty  pride  and  grand  man- 
ner were  entirely  wanting  in  the  laughing  eyes  and  gay 
smile  of  her  only  son  and  heir,  CliiTe. 

*'  When  did  you  come  ?  "  he  asked,  as  he  took  his  cup 
from  her  ladyship's  hand. 

"  Yesterday — did  not  my  note  tell  you  ?  "  '■'-"      ' 

"  True  !     I  forgot.     How  long  do  you  remain  ?  "    <     ;  v 

Lady  Agnes  buttered  her  roll  with  a  grave  face. 

"  That  depends  !  "  she  quietly  said. 

"On  what?"  -       ' 

"  On  you,  my  dear  boy." 

"Oh!  in  that  case,"  said  the  lieutenant,  with  his  bright 
smile,  "  you  will  certainly  remain  until  the  end  of  the  Lon- 
don  season.     Does   Charlotte   return  the   same   time  you 

do?"      ...  -,  '--,...-■■       •;:    /       .     -  ■..-   — .K   • 


MOTHER  AND  SON. 


X7 


«•  Who  told  you  Charlotte  was  here  at  all  ?  "  said  Lady 
Agnes,  looking  at  him  intently. 

"  I  saw  her  with  you  last  night  at  the  theater,  and  little 
Leicester,  too !  " 

"  Were  you  in  the  box  with  Sir  Roland  and  the  other  two 
gentlemen,  last  night?" 

"  Yes.  Don't  look  so  shocked,  my  dear  mother  !  How 
was  I  to  get  through  all  that  crowd  to  your  box?  and  be- 
sides, I  was  engaged  to  Sir  Roland  for  a  supper  at  his 
rooms ;  we  left  before  the  ballet.  By  the  way,  I  wonder 
you  were  not  too  much  fatigued  with  your  journey,  both  of 
you,  to  think  of  the  theater." 

"  I  was  fatigued,"  said  Lady  Agnes,  as  she  slowly  stirred 
her  coffee  with  one  pearl-white  hand,  and  gazed  intently  at 
her  son ;  "  but  I  went  solely  to  see  that  actress — what  do 
you  call  her?     Vivia,  or  something  of  that  sort,  is  it  not.?  " 

"  Mademoiselle  Vivia  is  her  name,"  said  the  young  man, 
blushing  suddenly,  probably  because  at  that  moment  he  took 
a  sip  of  coffee,  scalding  hot. 

Lady  Agnes  shrugged  her  tapering  shoulders,  and  curled 
her  lip  in  a  little,  slighting,  disdainful  way,  peculiar  to  her- 
self. :     ■  -. 

"  A  commonplace  little  thing  as  ever  I  saw.  They  told 
me  she  was  pretty ;  but  I  confess,  when  I  saw  that  pallid 
face  and  immense  black  eyes,  I  never  was  so  disappointed  in 
my  life.  I  don't  fancy  her  acting,  either — it  is  a  great  deal 
too  tragic  ;  and  I  confess  I  am  at  a  loss  to  know  why  people 
rave  about  her  as  they  do."    ^.^  u^^; 

"  Bad  taste,  probably,"  said  her  son,  laughing,  and  with 
quite  recovered  composure  ;  "  since  you  differ  from  them, 
and  yours  is  indisputably  perfect.  But  your  visit  to  the 
theater  was  not  thrown  away  after  all,  for  you  must  know 
you  made  a  conquest  the  first  moment  you  entered.  Did  you 
see  the  man  who  sat  beside  Sir  Roland,  and  stared  so  hard 
at  your  box?"     ,\         .;  >' 

"  The  tall  young  gentleman  with  the  sickly  face?     Yes." 

"  That  was  Lord  Henry  Lisle — you  know  the  Lisles  of 
Lisletown  ;  and  he  fell  desperately  in  love  with  you  at  first 
sight." 

"  Oh  !  nonsense !  don't  be  absurd,  Cliffe !  I  want  you 
to  be  serious  this  morning,  and  talk  sense." 


.6 


i8         THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CLIFFE. 


"  But  it's  a  fact,  upon  my  honor  !  Lisle  did  nothing  but 
rave  about  you  all  the  evening,  and  protested  you  were  the 
prettiest  woman  in  the  house." 

"  Bah  !  Tell  about  yourself,  Cliffe — what  have  you  been 
doing  for  the  last  two  months?  " 

"  Oh  !  millions  of  things  !  Been  on  parade,  fought  like 
a  hero  in  the  sham  fights  in  the  Park,  covered  myself  with 
glory  in  the  reviews,  made  love,  got  into  debt,  went  to  the 
opera,  and " 

"  To  the  theater  I  "  put  in  Lady  Agnes,  coolly. 

"  Certainly,  to  the  theater  !  I  could  as  soon  exist  without 
my  dinner  as  without  that !  " 

"  Precisely  so  1  I  don't  object  to  theaters  in  the  least," 
said  Lady  Agnes,  transfixing  him  with  her  cold  blue  eyes, 
"  but  when  it  comes  to  actresses,  it  is  going  a  little  too  far. 
Cliffe,  what  are  those  stories  that  people  are  whispering  about 
you,  and  tiiat  the  birds  of  the  air  have  borne  even  to  Clifton- 
lea?  " 

"  Stories  about  me  !  Haven't  the  first  idea.  What  are 
they?" 

"  Don't  equivocate,  sir!  Do  you  know  what  has  brought 
r  e  up  to  town  in  such  haste?" 

"  You  told  me  a  few  moments  back,  if  my  memory  serves 
me,  that  it  was  to  see  me." 

"  Exactly  !  and  to  make  you  give  me  a  final  answer  on  a 
subject  we  have  often  discussed  before." 

"And  what  may  that  be,  jMay?  "  M^r- 

"  Matrimony !  "  said  Lady  Agnes,  in  her  quiet,  decided 
vray.    . 

Lieutenant  Shirley,  with  his  eyes  fixed  intently  on  his  plate, 
began  cutting  a  slice  of  toast  thereon  into  minute  squares, 
with  as  much  precision  as  he  had  used  in  spreading  his 
napkin. 

"  Ah,  just  so!  A  very  pleasant  subject,  if  you  and  I  could 
only  take  the  same  view  of  it,  which  we  don't.  Do  you  want 
to  have  a  daughter-in-law  to  quarrel  with  at  Castle  ClifTe 
so  badly  that  you've  come  to  the  city  to  bring  one  home  ?  " 

"  One  thing  I  don't  want,  Lieutenant  Shirley,"  said  Lady 
Agnes,  somewhat  sharply,  "  is  to  see  my  son  make  a  senti- 
mental fool  of  himself!  Your  cousin  Charlotte  is  here,  and 
I  want  you  to  marry  her  and  go  abroad.     I've  been  wishing 


MOTHER  AND  SON. 


«9 


to  go  to  Rome  myself  for  the  last  two  or  three  months,  and 
it  will  be  an  excellent  opportunity  to  go  with  you." 

"  Thank  you,  mother!  But  at  the  same  time,  I'm  afraid 
you  and  my  cousin  Charlotte  must  hold  me  excused!  "  said 
the  lieutenant,  in  his  cool  manner. 

"  What  are  your  objections,  sir?  " 

"  Their  name  is  legion  !  In  the  first  place,"  said  the 
young  gentleman,  beginning  to  count  on  his  fingers,  "  she  is 
five  years  older  than  I  am ;  secondly,  she  is  fat — couldn't 
possibly  marry  any  one  but  a  sylph;  thirdly,  she  is  a  widow 

— the  lady  I  raise  to  the  happiness  of  Mrs.  S must  give 

me  a  heart  that  has  had  no  former  lodger ;  fourthly,  she  has  a 
son,  and  I  don't  precisely  fancy  the  idea  of  becoming,  at  the 
age  of  twenty,  papa  to  a  tall  boy  of  six  years ;  and,  fifthly, 
and  lastly,  and  conclusively,  she  is  my  cousin,  and  I  like  her 
as  such,  and  nothing  more,  and  wouldn't  marry  her  if  she  was 
the  last  woman  in  the  world  !  " 

Though  this  somewhat  emphatic  refusal  was  delivered  in 
the  coolest  and  most  careless  of  tones,  there  was  a  determined 
fire  in  his  blue  eyes  that  told  a  different  story.  Two  crimson 
spots,  all  unusual  there,  were  burning  on  the  lady's  fair  cheeks 
ere  he  ceased,  and  her  own  eyes  flashed  blue  flame,  but  her 
voice  was  perfectly  calm  and  clear.  Lady  Agnes  was  too 
great  a  lady  ever  to  get  into  so  vulgar  a  thing  as  a  passion. 

"You  refuse?" 

"Most  decidedly!  Why,  in  Heaven's  name,  my  dear 
mother,  do  you  want  me  to  take  (with  reverence  be  it  said) 
that  great  slug  for  a  wife?  " 

"  And  pray  what  earthly  reasons  are  there  why  you  should 
not  take  her?  She  is  young  and  handsome,  immensely  rich, 
and  of  one  of  the  first  families  in  Derbyshire  !  It  would  be 
.the  best  match  in  the  world  !  " 

"  Yes,  if  I  wanted  to  make  a  marriage  de  convenance.  I 
am  rich  enough  as  it  is,  and  Madame  Charlotte  may  keep 
her  guineas,  and  her  black  eyes,  and  her  tropical  person  for 
whomever  she  pleases.  Not  all  the  wealth  of  the  Indies 
would  tempt  me  to  marry  that  sensual,  full-blown,  high- 
blooded  Cleopatra  I  " 

One  singular  trait  of  Lieutenant  Shirley  was  that  he  said 
the  strongest  and  most  pungent  things  in  the  coolest  and 
quietest  of  tones.     The  fire  in  his  lady  mother's  eyes  was 


20         THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CUFFE. 


!■■■    1:1 


s  ?«^ 


'B 


i 


fierce,  the  spots  on  her  cheeks  hot  and  flaming,  and  in  her 
voice  there  was  a  ringing  tone  of  command. 

"  And  your  reasons  ?  " 

"  I  have  given  you  half  a  dozen  already,  ma  mere  !  " 

"  They  are  not  worth  thinking  of — there  must  be  a 
stronger  one  1  Lieuetnant  Shirley,  I  demand  to  know  what 
it  is  ?  " 

"  My  good  mother,  be  content  I  I  hate  this  subject. 
Why  cannot  we  let  it  rest." 

"  It  shall  never  rest  now  !     Speak,  sir,  I  command  I  " 

"  Mother,  what  do  you  wish  to  know  ?  " 

"  There  is  another  reason  for  this  obstinate  refusal — what 
is  it  ? " 

"  You  had  better  not  ask  me — you  will  not  like  to 
know  I  " 

"  Out  with  it  I  " 

"  The  very  best  reason  in  the  world,  then,"  he  said,  with 
his  careless  laugh.     "  I  am  married  already  I  " 


I 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CLIFFE.        21 


r%         ■    <        • 


"    %  " 


.        «.■• 


CHAPTER   III. 


THE   HEIRESS     OF    CASTLE   CLIFFE. 


A  STORMY  March  morning  was  breaking  over  London.  The 
rain  and  sleet  driven  by  the  wind,  beat  and  clamored  against 
the  windows,  flew  furiously  through  the  streets,  and  out 
over  graveyards,  brickfields,  marshes  and  bleak  commons,  to 
the  open  country,  where  wind  and  sleet  howled  to  the  bare 
trees,  and  around  cottages,  as  if  the  very  spirit  of  the  tem- 
pest was  out  on  the  "  rampage."  Most  of  these  cottages  out 
among  brick-yards  and  ghastly  wastes  of  marsh,  had  their 
doors  secured,  and  their  shutters  closely  fastened,  as  if  they, 
too,  like  their  inmates,  were  fast  asleep,  and  defied  the 
storm.  But  there  was  one  standing  away  from  the  rest,  on 
the  hillside,  whose  occupants,  judging  from  appearances, 
were  certainly  not  sleeping.  Its  two  front  windows  were 
bright  with  the  illumination  of  fire  and  candle,  and  their 
light  flared  out  red  and  lurid  far  over  the  desolate  wastes. 
The  shutters  were  open,  the  blinds  up,  and  the  vivid  glare 
would  have  been  a  welcome  sight  to  any  storm-beaten  traveler, 
had  such  been  out  that  impetuous  March  day ;  but  nobody 
was  foolhardy  enough  to  be  abroad  at  that  dismal  hour  of 
that  dismal  morning  ;  and  the  man  who  sat  before  the  great 
wood  fire  in  the  principal  room  of  the  cottage,  though  he 
listened  and  watched,  like  sister  Anne  on  the  tower-top,  for 
somebody's  coming,  that  somebody  came  not,  and  he  and 
his  matin  meditations  were  left  undisturbed.  He  was  a 
young  man,  sunburnt  and  good-looking — a  laborer  unmis- 
takably, though  dressed  in  his  best  ;  and  with  his  chair 
drawn  up  close  to  the  fire,  and  a  boot  on  each  andiron,  he 
drowsily  smoked  a  short  clay  pipe.  The  room  was  as  neat 
and  clean  as  any  room  could  be,  the  floor  faultlessly  sanded, 
the  poor  furniture  deftly  arranged,  and  all  looked  cozy  and 
cheerful  in  the  ruddy  firelight. 

There  was  nobody  else  in  the  room,  and  the  beating  of 


22 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI<E  CI.IFFE. 


iH 


the  ra?h  and  sleet  against  the  window,  the  crackling  of  the 
fire  and  the  chirping  of  crickets  on  the  hearth,  were  the 
only  sounds  that  broke  the  silence.  Yes,  there  was  another  1 
Once  or  twice,  while  the  man  sat  and  smoked  and  listened  to 
the  storm,  there  had  been  the  feeble  cry  of  an  infant ;  and  at 
such  times  he  had  started  and  looked  uneasily  at  a  door 
behind  him,  opening  evidently  into  another  room.  As  a 
a  little  Dutch  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  chimed  slQwly  six, 
this  door  opened,  and  a  young,  fair-haired,  pretty  woman 
came  out.  Her  eyes  were  red  and  swollen  with  weeping, 
and  she  carried  a  great  bundle  of  something  rolled  in  flannel 
carefully  in  her  arms.  The  man  looked  up  inquisitively  and 
took  the  pipe  out  of  his  mouth. 

"  Well  ?  "  he  pettishly  asked. 

"Oh,  poor  dear,  she  is  gone  at  last  I  "  said  the  woman, 
breaking  out  into  a  fresh  shower  of  tears.  "  She  has  just 
departed  I  *  I  feel  tired,  and  if  you  will  take  the  baby  I 
will  try  to  sleep  now,'  she  says,  and  "then  she  kisses  it  with 
her  own  pretty  loving  smile  ;  and  I  takes  it  up,  and  she  just 
turns  her  face  to  the  wall  and  dies.  Oh,  poor  dear  young 
lady  1 "  with  another  tender-hearted  tempest  of  sobs. 

"  How  uncommon  sudden  I  "  said  the  man,  looking  medi- 
tatively at  the  fire.     "  Is  that  the  baby  ?  " 

"  Yes,  the  pretty  little  dear  I  Do  look  how  sweetly  it 
sleeps." 

The  young  woman  unrolled  the  bundle  of  flannel,  and  dis- 
played an  infant  of  very  tender  age  indeed — inasmuch  as  it 
could  not  have  been  a  week  old — slumbering  therein.  It 
was  very  much  like  any  other  young  baby  in  that  fresh  and 
green  stage  of  existence,  having  only  one  peculiarity,  that 
it  was  the  merest  trifle  of  a  baby  ever  was  seen.  A  decent 
wax-doll  would  have  been  a  giantess  beside  it.  The  mite  of  a 
creature,  void  of  hair,  and  eyebrows,  and  nails,  sleeping  so 
quietly  in  a  sea  of  yellow  flannel,  might  have  gone  into  a 
quart-mug,  and  found  the  premises  too  extensive  for  it  at 
that.  John  looked  at  it  as  nien  do  look  at  very  new  babies, 
with  a  solemn  and  awestruck  face. 

*  It's  a  very  small  baby,  isn't  it  ?  "  he  remarked,  in  a  sub- 
<''ied  tone.  "  I  should  be  afraid  to  lay  my  finger  on  it,  for 
rear  of  crushing  it  to  death.     It's  a  girl,  you  told  me,  didn't 

you  ?   "  :••.,:       ,-       .   ,   ^,,  ...  ,     ;;.^  .... 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CLIFFE.        23 

«•  To  be  sure  it's  a  girl,  bless  its  little  heart  I  Will  you 
come  and  look  at  the  young  lady,  John  ? " 

John  got  up  and  followed  his  wife  into  the  inner  room. 
It  was  a  bedroom  ;  like  the  apartment  they  had  left,  very 
neat  ;  but,  unlike  that,  very  tastefully  furnished.  The  floor 
had  a  pretty  carpet  of  green  and  white  ;  its  windows  were 
draped  with  white  and  green  silk.  A  pretty  toilet-table, 
under  a  large  gilt-framed  mirror,  with  a  handsome  dressing- 
case  thereon,  was  in  one  corner  ;  a  guitar  and  music-rack 
in  another  ;  a  lounge  with  green  silk  cushions  in  a  third  ; 
and,  in  a  fourth,  a  French  bedstead,  all  draped  and  covered 
with  white.  Near  the  bed  stood  a  round  gilded  stand, 
strewn  with  vials,  medicine-bottles,  and  glasses  ;  beside  it, 
a  great  sleepy-hollow  of  an  armchair,  also  cushioned  with 
green  silk  ;  and  on  tha  bed  lay  the  mistress  and  owner  of 
all  these  pretty  things,  who  had  left  them,  and  all  other 
things  earthly,  forever.  A  shaded  lamp  stood  on  the  dress- 
ing-table. The  woman  took  it  up  and  held  it  so  that  its 
light  fell  full  on  the  dead  face — a  lovely  face,  whiter  than 
alabaster  ;  a  slight  smile  lingering  round  the  parted  lipi  ; 
the  black  lashes  lying  at  rest  on  the  pure  cheek  ;  the  black, 
arched  eyebrows  sharply  traced  against  the  white,  smooth 
brow,  stamped  with  the  majestic  seal  of  death.  A  profusion 
of  curling  hair,  of  purplish  black  luster,  streamed  over  the 
white  pillow  and  her  own  delicate  white  night-robe.  One 
arm  was  under  her  head,  as  she  had  often  Iain  in  life ;  and  the 
other,  which  was  outside  of  the  clothes,  was  already  cold  and 
stiff.  Man  and  woman  gazed  in  awe — neither  spoke.  The 
still  majesty  of  the  face  hushed  them  ;  and  the  man,  after 
looking  for  a  moment,  turned  and  walked  out  on  tiptoe,  as 
if  afraid  to  wake  the  calm  sleeper.  The  woman  drew  the 
sheet  reverently  over  the  face,  laid  the  sleeping  baby  among 
the  soft  cushions  of  the  lounge,  followed  her  husband  to  the 
outer  room  and  closed  the  door.  He  resumed  his  seat  and 
looked  seriously  into  the  fire  ;  and  she  stood  beside  him, 
with  one  hand  resting  on  his  shoulder,  and  crying  softly 
still. 

"  Poor  dear  lady  I  To  think  that  she  should  die  away 
from  all  her  friends  like  this,  and  she  so  young  and  beautiful, 
too!" 

"  Young  and  beautiful  folks  must  die,  as  well  as  old  and 


24         THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTILE  CUFFE.. 

ugly  ones,  when  their  time  comes,"  said  the  man,  with  a 
touch  of  philosophy.  "  But  this  one  is  uncommon  hand- 
some, no  mistake.  And  so  you  don't  know  her  name,  Jenny  ?  " 
"  No,"  said  Jenny,  shaking  her  head  retrospectively*  "  her 
and  him — that's  the  young  gentleman,  you  know — came 
bright  and  early  one  morning  in  a  coach ;  and  he  said  he 
had  heard  we  were  poor  folks  and  lately  married,  and  would 
not  object  to  taking  a  lodger  for  a  little  while,  if  she  paid 
well  and  gave  no  trouble.  Of  course,  I  was  glad  to  jump  at 
this  offer ;  and  he  gave  me  twenty  guineas  to  begin  with, 
and  told  me  to  have  the  room  furnished,  and  not  say  any- 
thing about  my  lodger  to  anybody.  The  young  lady  seemed 
to  be  ill  then,  and  was  shivering  with  cold ;  but  she  was 
patient  as  an  angel,  and  smiled  and  thanked  me  like  one  for 
everything  I  did  for  her.  And  that's  the  whole  story  ;  and 
the  young  gentleman  has  never  been  here  since." 

"  And  that's — how  long  ago  is  that  ?  " 

"  Three  weeks  to-morrow.  You  just  went  to  London  that 
very  morning,  yourself,  you  remember,  John," 

"  I  remember,"  said  John  ;  "  and  my  opinion  is,  the  young 
gentleman  is  a  scamp,  and  the  young  lady  no  better  nor  she 
outijht  to  be." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  retorts  his  wife,  with  spirit.  "  She's 
a  angel  in  that  bedroom,  if  ever  there  was  one  1  Only  yester- 
day, when  the  doctor  told  her  that  she  was  a-dying,  she 
asked  for  pen  and  ink  to  write  to  her  husband,  and  she  said 
if  i  e  was  living  it  would  bring  him  to  her  before  she  died 
yet — ^poor  dear  darling ! " 

"  But  it  didn't  do  it,  though,"  said  John,  with  a  triumphant 
grin,  "  and  I  don't  believe " 

Here  John's  words  were  jerked  out  of  his  mouth,  as  it 
were,  by  the  furious  gallop  of  a  horse  through  the  rain  ;  and 
the  next  moment  there  was  a  thundering  knock  at  the  door 
that  made  the  cottage  shake.  John  sprung  up  and  opened 
it,  and  there  entered  the  dripping  form  of  a  man,  wearing  a 
long  cloak,  and  with  his  military  cap  pulled  over  his  face  to 
shield  it  from  the  storm.  Before  the  door  was  closed,  the 
cloak  and  cap  were  off,  and  the  woman  saw  the  face  of  the 
handsome  yoang  gentleman  who  had  brought  her  lodger 
there.  But  that  face  was  changed  now  ;  it  was  as  thin  and 
bloodless  almost  as  that  of  the  quiet*  sleeper  in  the  other 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CWFFE.         25 


? " 


room,  and  there  was  something  of  fierce  intensity  in  his 
eager  eyes.  At  the  sight  of  him,  Jenny  put  her  apron  over 
her  face  and  broke  out  into  a  fresh  shower  of  sobs. 

"  Where  is  she  ?  "  he  asked  through  his  closed  teeth. 

The  woman  opened  the  bedroom  door,  and  he  followed 
her  in.  At  sight  of  the  white  shape  lying  so  dreadfully  still 
under  the  sheet,  he  recoiled ;  but  the  next  moment  he  was 
beside  the  bed.  Jenny  laid  her  hand  on  the  sheet  to  draw 
it  down,  he  laid  his  there,  too  ;  the  chill  of  death  struck  to 
his  heart,  and  he  lifted  her  hand  away. 

"  No  1  "  he  said  hoarsely,  "  Let  it  be.  When  did  she 
die  ? " 

"  Not  half  an  hour  ago,  sir."  ' 

"  You  had  a  doctor  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir ;  he  came  every  day  ;  he  came  last  night,  but 
he  could  do  nothing  for  her." 

"  Is  that  man  in  the  next  room  your  husbaiid  ?  "  ,  > 

"  Yes,  your  honor." 

"  Tell  him,  then,  to  go  and  purchase  a  coffin  and  order 
the  sexton  to  have  the  grave  prepared  by  this  evening.  In 
twenty-four  hours  I  leave  England  forever,  and  I  must  see 
her  laid  in  the  grave  before  I  depart." 

"  And  the  baby,  sir  ?  "  said  the  woman,  timidly,  half 
frightened  by  his  stern,  almost  harsh  tone.  "  Will  you  not 
look  at  it  ? — here  it  is  1  " 

"  No  I  "  said  the  young  man  fiercely.  "  Take  it  and  be- 
gone 1"  '  ' 

Jenny  snatched  up  the  baby,  and  fled  in  dismay ;  and  the 
young  man  sat  down  beside  his  dead,  and  laid  his  face  on 
the  pillow  where  the  dead  face  lay.  Rain  and  hail  still  lashed 
the  windows,  the  wind  shrieked  in  dismal  blasts  over  the 
bare  brick  fields  and  bleak  common.  Morning  was  lifting 
a  dull  and  leaden  eye  over  the  distant  hills,  and  the  new- 
born day  gave  promise  of  turning  out  as  sullen  and  dreary  as 
ever  a  March  day  could  well  do.  "  Blessed  is  the  corpse 
that  the  rain  rains  on  1  "  and  so  Jenny  thought,  as  she  laid 
the  baby  on  her  own  bed,  and  watched  her  husband  plung- 
ing through  the  rain  and  wind,  on  his  doleful  errand. 

The  dark,  sad  hours  stole  on,  and  the  solitary  watcher  in 
the  room  of  death  kept  his  vigil  undisturbed.  Breakfast  and 
dinner  hour  passed,  and  Jenny's  hospitable  heart  ached  to 


26         THE  HEIRESS  OE  CASTI.E  CLIFFE. 

think  that  the  young  gentleman  had  not  a  mouthful  to  eat 
all  the  blessed  time ;  but  she  would  not  have  taken  broad 
England  and  venture  to  open  the  door  uninvited  again. 
And  so,  while  the  storm  raged  on  without,  the  lamp  flared 
on  the  dressing-table,  the  dark  wintry  day  stole  on,  and  the 
lonely  watcher  sat  there  still.  It  was  within  an  hour  of 
dusk,  and  Jenny  sat  near  the  fire,  singing  a  soft  lullaby  to  the 
baby,  when  the  door  opened,  and  he  stood  before  her  like  a 
tall,  dark  ghost  I 

"  Has  the  coffin  come  ?  "  he  asked.  And  Jenny  started 
up  and  nearly  dropped  the  baby  with  a  sliriek,  at  the  hoarse 
and  hollow  sound  of  his  voice.    .       , 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir  ;  there  it  is  1 " 

The  dismal  thing  stood  up,  black  and  ominous,  against  the 
opposite  wall.  He  just  glanced  at  it,  and  then  back  again  at 
her. 

"  And  the  grave  has  been  dug  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir :  and  if  you  please,  the  undertaker  has  sent  his 
hearse  on  account  of  the  rain,  and  it  is  waiting  now  in  the 
shed.  My  John  is  there,  too.  I  will  call  him  in,  sir,  if  you 
please." 

He  made  a  gesture  in  the  affirmative,  and  Jenny  flew  out 
to  do  her  errand.  When  she  returned  with  her  John,  the 
young  man  assisted  him  in  laying  the  dead  form  within  the 
coffin,  and  they  both  carried  it  to  the  door  and  laid  it  within 
the  hearse. 

**  You  will  come  back,  sir,  won't  you  ? "  ventured  Jenny, 
standing  at  the  door  and  weeping  incessantly  behind  her 
apron.  ^2?  J;; 

"  Yes.     Go  on  I  " 

The  hearse  started ;  and  John  and  the  stranger  followed 
to  the  last  resting-place  of  her  lying  within.  It  was  all  dreary, 
the  darkening  sky,  the  drenched  earth,  the  gloomy  hearse, 
and  the  two  solitary  figures  following  silently  after,  with 
bowed  heads,  through  the  beating  storm.  Luckily,  the 
churchyard  was  near.  The  sexton,  at  sight  of  them,  ran 
off  for  the  clergyman,  who,  shivering  and  reluctant,  appeared 
on  the  scene  just  as  the  coffin  was  lowered  to  the  ground. 

"  Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust  1  "  The  beautiful  burial- 
service  of  the  English  Church  was  over.  The  coffin  was 
lowered  and  the  sods  went  rattling  drearily  down  on  the  lid. 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTILE  CUFFE.        27 

The  young  man  stood  bareheaded,  his  auburn  hair  fluttering 
in  the  wind,  and  the  storm  beating  unheeded  on  his  head. 
John  was  bareheaded,  too,  much  against  his  will ;  but  the 
clergyman  ran  home  with  unclerical  haste  the  moment  the 
last  word  was  uttered ;  and  the  sexton  shoveled  and  beat 
down  the  sods  with  professional  phlegm.  Just  then,  flutter- 
ing in  the  wiijd,  a  figure  came  through  the  leaden  twilight ; 
the  young  man  lifted  his  gloomy  eyes,  and  the  newcomer 
his  hat.  He  had  yellow  hair  and  a  jaundice  complexion, 
and  his  overcoat  was  a  sort  of  yellowish  brown — in  short,  it 
was  Mr.  Sylvester  Sweet. 

"  Good  morning.  Lieutenant  Shirley  1  Who  in  the  world 
would  expect  to  meet  you  here  ?     Not  lost  a  friend,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  Have  the  goodness  to  excuse  me,  Mr.  Sweet.  I  wish  to 
be  alone !  "  was  the  cold  and  haughty  reply. 

And  Mr.  Sweet,  with  an  angel  smile  rippling  all  over  his 
face,  left  accordingly,  and  disappeared  in  tlie  dismal 
gloaming. 

With  the  last  sod  beaten  down,  the  sexton  departed,  and 
John  went  slowly  to  the  gate  to  wait  in  wet  impatience  for 
the  young  gentleman.  Standing  at  his  post,  he  saw  that 
same  young  gentleman  kneel  down  on  the  soaking  sods, 
lean  his  arm  on  the  rude  wooden  cross  the  sexton  had  thrust 
at  the  head  of  the  grave,  and  lay  his  face  thereon.  So  long 
did  he  kneel  there,  with  the  cold  March  rain  beating  down 
on  his  uncovered  head,  that  John's  teeth  were  chattering, 
and  an  inky  darkness  was  falling  over  the  city  of  the  dead. 
But  he  rose  at  last,  and  came  striding  to  his  side ;  passed 
him  with  tremendous  sweeps  of  limb,  and  was  standing,  drip- 
ping like  a  water-god,  before  the  kitchen  fire,  when  the  good 
man  of  the  house  entered.  Jenny  was  in  a  low  chair,  with 
the  baby  on  her  lap,  still  sleeping — its  principal  occupation 
apparently :  and  he  looked  at  it  with  a  cold,  steady  glance, 
very  like  that  of  his  lady  mother. 

"  I  am  going  to  leave  England,"  he  said,  addressing  them 
both  when  John  entered,  "  In  twenty-four  hours  I  am  going 
to  India,  and  if  I  should  never  come  back,  what  will  you  do 
with  that  child  ?  " 

'*  Keep  it  always,"  said  Jenny,  kissing  it.  "  Dear  little 
thing  I     I  love  it  already  as  if  it  were  my  own !  " 

"  If  I  live,  it  will  not  only  be  provided  for,  but  you  will  be 


jzS         THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI^E  CI<IFFE. 


well  paid  for  your  trouble.     You  may  take  this  as  a  guaranty 
of  the  future,  and  so— good-by  1 " 

He  dropped  a  purse  heavy  with  guineas  into  John's 
willing  palm  ;  then  going  over,  looked  at  the  sleeping  infant 
with  a  cold,  set  face,  for  one  instant,  and  then  stooping  down, 
touched  his  lips  lightly  to  its  velvet  cheek.  And  then,  wrap- 
ping his  cloak  closely  around  him,  and  pulling  his  military 
cap  far  over  his  brows,  he  was  out  into  the  wild,  black 
night.  They  heard  his  horse's  hoofs  splashing  over  the 
marshy  common,  and  they  knew  not  even  the  name  of  the 
'*  marble  ghost  "  who  came  and  disappeared  as  mysteriously 
as  the  Black  Horseman  in  the  German  tale. 

And  so  the  world  went !  In  her  far-off  home,  amid  the 
green  hills  and  golden  Sussex  downs,  sat  a  lady,  whose  pride 
was  so  much  stronger  than  her  love,  that  by  her  own  act 
she  had  made  herself  a  childless,  broken-heaited  woman. 
Steaming  down  the  Thames,  in  a  great  transport,  a  young 
officer  stood,  with  folded  arms,  watching  the  receding  shores 
he  might  never  see  again,  whose  love  was  so  much  stronger 
than  his  pride,  that  he  was  leaving  his  native  land  with  a 
prayer  in  his  heart  that  some  Sepoy  bullet  might  lay  him 
dead  under  the  blazing  Indian  sky ;  and,  sleeping  in  her 
cottage  home,  all  unconscious  of  the  destiny  before  her,  lay 
the  little  heiress  of  Castle  Cliffe  1 


.:■■'■.,  m :'    ■■'.r-u 

if-"  ■    -    m" 


J'i' 


TWEI.VK  YEARS  I.ATER. 


29 


CHAPTER  IV. 


TWELVE  YEARS  AFTER. 


The  great  bell  of  Clifton  cathedral  was  just  ringing  the 
hour  of  five.  -  The  early  morning  was  dim  with  hazy  mist, 
but  the  sky  was  blue  and  cloudless  ;  and  away  in  the  east, 
a  crimson  glory  was  spreading,  the  herald  of  the  rising  sun. 
Early  as  the  hour  was,  all  was  bustle  and  busy  life  in  the 
town  of  Cliftonlea ;  you  would  have  thought,  had  you  seen 
the  concourse  of  people  in  High  street,  it  was  noon  instead 
of  five  in  the  morning.  Windows,  too,  were  opening  in 
every  direction  ;  nightcapped  heads  being  popped  out ;  anx- 
ious glances  being  cast  at  the  sky,  and  then  the  nightcaps 
were  popped  in  again  ;  the  windows  slammed  down,  and 
everybody  making  their  toilet,  eager  to  be  out.  Usually, 
Cliftonlea  .was  as  quiet  and  well-behaved  a  town  as  any  in 
England,  but  on  the  night  previous  to  this  memorable  morn- 
ing, its  two  serene  guardian  angels.  Peace  and  Quietness, 
had  taken  unto  themselves  wings  and  flown  far  away.  The 
clatter  of  horses  and  wheels  had  made  night  hideous  ;  the 
jingling  of  bells  and  shouts  of  children,  and  the  tramp  of 
numberless  footsteps  had  awoke  the  dull  echoes  from  night- 
fall till  daydawn.  In  short,  not  to  keep  any  one  in  sus- 
pense, this  was  the  first  day  of  the  annual  Cliftonlea  races — 
and  Bartlemy  fair,  in  the  days  of  Henry  the  Eighth,  was 
not  a  circumstance  to  the  Cliftonlea  races.  Nobody  in  the 
whole  town,  under  the  sensible  and  settled  age  of  thirty, 
thought  of  eating  a  mouthful  that  morning ;  it  was  sacrilege 
to  think  of  such  a  groveling  matter  as  breakfast  on  the  first 
glorious  day  ;  and  so  new  coats  and  hats,  and  smart  dresses, 
were  donned,  and  all  the  young  folks  came  pouring  out  in 
one  continuous  stream  toward  the  scene  of  action. 

The  long,  winding  road  of  three  miles,  between  Cliftonlea 
and  the  race-course,  on  common  everyday  days,  was  the 


i 


'$ 


E 


30         THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CI.IFFE.      „ . 

pleasantest  road  in  the  world— bordered  with  fragrant  haw- 
thorn hedges,  with  great  waving  fields  of  grain  and  clover 
on  each  hand,  and  shadowed  here  and  there  with  giant 
beeches  and  elms.  But  it  was  not  a  particularly  cool  or 
tranquil  tramp  on  this  morning,  for  the  throng  of  vehicles 
and  foot-passengers  was  fearful,  and  the  clouds  of  simooms 
of  dust  more  frightful  still.  There  were  huge  refreshment 
caravans,  whole  troops  of  strolling  players,  gangs  of  gipsies, 
wandering  minstrels,  and  all  such  roving  vagabonds ;  great 
booths  on  four  wheels,  carts,  drays,  wagons,  and  every 
species  of  conveyance  imaginable.  There  were  equestrians, 
too,  chiefly  mounted  on  mules  and  donkeys ;  there  were 
jingling  of  bells,  and  no  end  of  shouting,  cursing  and  vocif- 
erating, so  that  it  was  the  liveliest  morning  that  road  had 
known  for  at  least  twelve  months. 

There  rose  the  brightest  of  suns,  and  the  bluest  of  skies, 
scorching  and  glaring  hot.  The  volumes  of  dust  were 
awful,  and  came  rolling  even  into  the  town ;  but  still  the 
road  was  crowded,  and  still  the  cry  was,  "  They  come  I  " 
But  the  people  and  vehicles  which  passed  were  of  another 
nature  now.  The  great  caravans  and  huge  carts  had  al- 
most ceased,  and  young  England  came  flashing  along  in 
tandems,  and  dog-carts,  and  flies,  and  four-in-hands,  or 
mounted  on  prancing  steeds.  The  officers  from  the  Clif- 
tonlea  barracks — dashing  dragoons  in  splendid  uniforms — 
flew  like  the  wind  through  the  dust,  and  sporting  countiy- 
gentlemen  in  top-boots  and  knowing  caps,  and  fox-hunters  in 
pink,  anc  betting-men,  and  blacklegs,  book  in  hand,  followed, 
as  if  life  and  death  depended  on  their  haste.  In  two  or 
three  more  hours  came  another  change — superb  barouches, 
broughams,  phaetons,  grand  carriages  with  coachmen  and 
footmen  in  livery,  magnificent  horses  in  silver  harness,  rich 
hammercloths  with  coats  of  arms  emblazoned  thereon,  came 
rolling  splendidly  up,  filled  with  splendid  ladies.  All  the 
great  folks  for  fifty  miles  round  came  to  the  Cliftonlea 
races ;  even  the  Right  Reverend  the  Bishop  of  Cliftonlea 
deigned  to  come  there  himself. 

And  the  scene  on  the  race-ground — who  shall  describe 
it  ?  The  circuses,  the  theaters,  the  refreshment  booths,  the 
thousand-and-one  places  of  amusement  and  traps  for  catch- 
ing money ;  the  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  people  running 


TWEI.VB  YEARS  LATER 


3« 


skies, 
were 
till  the 
)me  I  '* 
'n  other 
»ad  al- 
^ng  in 
ds,  or 
e  Clif- 
rms — 
untiy- 
'ers  in 
owed, 
vo  or 
iches,   ^ 

and 
,  rich 
came 
I  the 
)nlea 
>nlea 

:ribe 
,  the 
Ltch- 
ling 


hither  and  thither  over  the  greensward  in  one  living  sea ; 
the  long  array  of  carriages  drawn  up  near  the  race-ground 
and  filled  with  such  dazzling  visions  of  glancing  silk,  and 
fluttering  lace,  waving  plumes  and  beautiful  faces.  Then 
the  air  was  filled  with  music  from  the  countless  performers, 
making  up  a  sort  of  cats'  concert,  not  unpleasant  to  listen 
to ;  and  over  all  there  was  the  cloudless  sky  and  blazing 
August  sun. 

A  group  of  officers  standing  near  the  course,  betting- 
books  in  hand,  wSre  discussing  the  merits  of  the  rival  racers, 
and  taking  down  wagers. 

Vivia,  owned  by  Sir  Roland  Cliffe,  of  Cliftonlea,  and  Lady 
Agnes,  owned  by  Lord  Henry  Lisle,  of  Lisleham,  were  to 
take  the  lead  that  day. 

"  Two  to  one  on  Vivia  1  "  cried  Captain  Douglas,  of  the 
light  dragoons. 

•'  Done  I  "  cried  a  brother  officer.  "  I  am  ready  to  back 
the  Lady  Agnes  against  any  odds  I  "  - 

The  bets  were  booked,  and  as  Captain  Douglas  put  his 
betting-book  in  his  pocket  with  a  smile  on  his  lip,  and  his 
quick  eye  glanced  far  and  wide,  he  suddenly  exclaimed  : 
'    "  And  here  comes  the  Lady  Agnes  herself,  looking  stately 
as  a  queen  and  fair  as  a  lily,  as  she  always  does." 

"  Where  ?  "  said  his  superior  officer,  old  Major  Warwick, 
looking  helplessly  round  through  his  spectacles.  *'  I  thought 
Lady  Agnes  was  a  roan." 

"  I  don't  mean  the  red  mare,"  said  Captain  Douglas, 
laughing,  "but  the  real  Ifona  fide  Lady  Agnes  herself — 
Lady  Agnes  Shirley.  There  she  sits,  like  a  princess  in  a 
play,  in  that  superb  pony  phaeton." 

"  Handsomest  woman  in  Sussex !  "  lisped  a  young  en- 
sign ;  "  and  worth  no  end  of  tin.  That's  her  nephew, 
young  Shirley,  driving,  and  who  is  that  little  fright  in  the 
back  seat  ? " 

.f  "  That's  her  niece,  little  Maggie  Shirley,  and  they  say  the 
heiress  of  Castle  Cliffe." 

"  How  can  that  be  ?  "  said  the  major.  "  I  thought  the 
estate  was  entailed." 

"  The  Shirley  estates  are,  but  the  castle  and  the  village 
adjoining  were  the  wedding-dower  of  Lady  Agnes  Cliffe 
when  she  married  Doctor  Shirley.     So,  though  the  Shirley 


\ 

1 

' 

> 

t 

■ 

i 

1 

■ 

1    » 

i 

1 

I- 


32         THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CUFFE. 

property   is   strictly  entailed  to  the  nearest  of  kin,  Lady 
Agnes  can.  leave  Castle  Cliffe  to  her  kitchen-maid  if  she 

likes." 

"  Has  she  no  children  of  her  own  ? "  asked  the  major, 
who  was  a  stranger  in  Cliftonlea,  and  a  little  stupid  about 
pedigree. 

"  None  now ;  she  had  a  son,  Clifife  Shirley — splendid 
fellow  he  was,  too.  He  was  one  of  us,  and  as  brave  as  a 
lion.  We  served  together  some  years  in  India.  I  remember 
him  so  well,  there  was  not  a  man  in  the  whole  regiment  who 
would  not  have  died  for  him  ;  but  he  was  a  discarded  son  I  " 

"  How  was  that }  Lady  Agnes  looks  more  like  an  angel 
than  a  vindictive  mother." 

"  Oh,  your  female  angels  often  turn  out  to  have  the  heart 
of  Old  Nick  himself,"  said  Captain  Douglas,  tightening  his 
belt.  "  I  don't  mean  to  say  she  has,  you  know ;  but  those 
Cliffes  are  infernally  proud  people.  They  all  are.  I  have 
known  some  of  their  distant  cousins,  and  so  on,  poor  as  old 
Job's  turkey,  and  proud  as  the  devil.  Cliffe  Shirley  com- 
mitted that  most  heinous  of  social  crimes — a  low  marriage. 
There  was  the  dickens  to  pay,  of  course,  when  my  lady 
yonder  heard  it ;  and  the  upshot  was,  the  poor  fellow  was 
disinherited.  His  wife  died  a  year  after  the  marriage ;  but 
he  had  a  daughter.  I  remember  bis  telling  me  of  her  a 
thousand  times,  with  the  stars  of  India  shining  down  on  our 
bivouac.  Poor  Clifford  1  he  was  a  glorious  fellow  1  but  I 
have  heard  he  was  killed  since  I  came  home,  scaling  the 
walls  of  Monagoola,  or  some  such  place." 

"  Whom  did  he  marry  ? " 

"  I  forget,  now.  He  never  would  speak  of  his  wife ;  but 
I  have  heard  she  was  a  ballet-dancer,  or  opera-singer,  or 
something  of  that  sort." 

"  All  wrong  1 "  said  a  voice  at  his  elbow.  And  there 
stood  Lord  Henry  Lisle,  slapping  his  boots  with  a  ratan, 
and  listening  languidly.  "  I  know  the  whole  story.  She 
was  a  French  actress.  You've  seen  her  a  score  of  times. 
Don't  you  remember  Mademoiselle  Vivia,  who  took  dl 
London  by  storm  some  twelve  years  ago  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  I  do !  Ah,  what  eyes  that  girl  had  I  And 
then  she  disappeared  so  mysteriously,  nobody  ever  kne\y 
what  became  of  her."  -    -    »      -^      . 


TWEI.VK  YEARS  AFTER. 


33 


"  I  know.  Cliffe  Shirley  married  her,  and  she  died,  as 
you  have  said,  a  year  after." 

Captain  Douglas  gave  an  intensely  long  whistle  of  aston- 
ishment. 

"  Oh,  that  was  the  way  of  it,  then  ?  No  wonder  his  lady 
mother  was  outrageous.     A  Cliflfe  marry  an  actress  I  " 

"  Just  so  1  "  drawled  Lord  Lisle,  slapping  the  dust  off  his 
boots.  "  And  if  her  son  hadn't  married  her,  her  brother 
would!     Sir  Roland  nearly  went  distracted  about  her." 

"  Oh,  nonsense  1  He  married  that  black-eyed  widow — 
that  cousin  Charlotte  of  his,  with  the  little  boy — in  half  a 
year  after." 

"  It's  true,  though  1  I  never  saw  one  half  so  frantically 
in  love ;  and  he  hasn't  forgotten  her  yet,  as  you  may  see  by 
his  naming  his  black  mare  after  her." 

Captain  Douglas  laughed. 

"  And  is  it  for  the  same  reason  you  have  named  your 
red  road-steed  after  Lady  Agnes — eh.  Lisle?  " 

Lord  Lisle  actually  blushed.  Everybody^  knew  how  in- 
fatuated the  insipid  young  peer  was  about  the  haughty  lady 
of  Castle  Cliffe,  who  might  have  been  his  mother;  and 
everybody  laughed  at  him,  except  the  lady  herself,  who,  in 
an  uplifted  sort  of  way,  was  splendidly  and  serenely  scorn- 
ful. .  - 

"  Lovely  creature  I  "  lisped  the  ensign.  "  And  those 
ponies  are  worth  a  thousand  guineas,  if  they're  worth 
one." 

"  How  much  ?  Where  is  she  ?  Is  she  here  ?  "  cried 
Lord  Lisle,  who  was  mentally  and  physically  rather  obtuse, 
staring  around  him.  "  Oh,  I  see  her  I  Excuse  me,  gentle- 
men, I  must  pay  my  respects." 

Off  went  Lord  Lisle  like  a  bolt  from  a  bow.  The  officers 
looked  at  each  other  and  laughed. 

"  Now,  you'll  see  the  grandly-disdainful  reception  he'll 
get,"  said  Captain  Douglas.  "  The  queenly  descendant  of 
the  Cliffes  treats  the  lately-fledged  lordling  as  if  he  were 
her  foot-boy ;  and  probably  his  grandfather  shoed  her  grand- 
father's horses." 

The  whole  group  were  looking  toward  the  glittering  file 
of  carriages,  drawn  up  near  the  end  of  which  was  an  ex- 
quisite phaeton,  drawn  by  two  beautifully-matched  ponies 


\ 


\, 


\i 


I  f 


'I 


J. 


34 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTILE  CIvIFFE. 


of  creamy  whiteness.  The  phaeton  had  three  occupants — a 
lady,  looking  still  young  and  still  beautiful,  and  eminently 
distinguished,  dressed  in  flowing  robes  of  black  barege, 
with  a  large  lace  shawl — gracefully  worn  more  like  drapery 
than  a  shawl — half-slipping  off  one  shoulder,  daintily  gloved 
ill  black  kid,  and  wearing  a  black  tulle  bonnet,  contrasting 
exquisitely  with  the  pearly  fairness  of  the  proud  face,  and 
shining  bandeaux  of  flaxen  hair.  In  those  flaxen  bandeaux 
not  one  gray  hair  was  visible ;  and  leaning  back  with  lan- 
guid hauteur,  she  looked  a  proud,  indolent,  elegant  woman 
of  the  world,  but  not  a  widow  wearing  mourning  for  her 
only  son.  Lady  Agnes  Shirley  might  have  felt — widows 
with  only  sons  mostly  do — but  certainly  the  world  knew 
nothing  of  it.  Her  heart  might  break ;  but  she  was  one 
who  could  suffer  and  make  no  sign. 

Sitting  beside  her  and  holding  the  reins,  pointing  every- 
thing out  to  her  with  vivid  animation,  talking  with  the 
greatest  volubility,  and  gesticulating  with  the  utmost  earnest- 
ness, was  a  tall,  dark-eyed,  dark-haired,  good-looking  young 
giant,  who,  although  only  sixteen,  was  six  feet  high,  and 
told  his  friends  he  wasn't  half-done  growing  yet.  He  was 
Tom  Shirley,  an  orphan,  the  son  of  Lady  Agnes'  late  hus- 
band's youngest  brother,  now  resident  at  Castle  Cliffe,  and 
senior  boy  in  the  college  school  of  Cliftonlea.  And  that 
was  Master  Tom's  whole  past  history,  except  that  he  was 
the  best-natured,  impetuous,  fiery,  rough,  kind-hearted 
young  giant,  whose  loud  voice  and  long  strides  brought  up- 
roar everywhere  he  went. 

There  was  a  third  figure  in  the  back  seat— a  small  girl 
who  looked  ten,  and  who  was  in  reality  fifteen  years  old — 
Miss   Margaret  Shirley,  the  daughter   of  Doctor  Shirley's- 
second  brother — like  Tom,  an  orphan,  and  depe-iident  on 
her  aunt.     She  was  dressed  in  bright  rose  silk,  wore  a  pretty 
summer   hat  trimmed  with   rose   ribbons ;  but   the  bright 
colors   of   robe   and  chapeau  contrasted  harshly  with  her 
dark,  pale  face.     It  was  a  wan,  sickly,  solemn,  unsmiling 
little  visage  as  ever  child  wore ;  with  large,  hollow,  gray 
eyes,  neither  bright  nor  expressive  ;  sharp,  pinched  features,  ' 
and  altogether  an  inexplicably  cowed  and  subdued  look,  , 
Her   hair  was   pretty — the  only  pretty  thing  about  her — . 
dark,  and  thick,  and  curly,  as  all  the  Shirleys  were ;  but  it 


TWELVE  YEARS  AFTER. 


35 


could  not  relieve  the  solemn,  sallow  face,  the  pinched,  an- 
gular figure,  and  everybody  wondered  what  Lady  Agnes 
could  see  in  that  fairy  changeling ;  and  shrugged  their 
shoulders  to  think  that  she  should  reign  in  Castle  Cliffe, 
whose  mistresses  had  always  been  the  country's  boast  for 
their  beauty.      '  '  r. 

The  knot  of  officers  watching  Lo'-d  Lisle  had  all  their 
expectations  realized.  His  profound  bow  received  only  the 
slightest  and  coldest  answering  bend  of  the  haughty  head. 
Then  Tom  Shirley  jumped  from  the  carriage,  and  digging 
his  elbows  into  everybody's  ribs  who  came  in  his  way,  tore 
like  a  fiery  meteor  through  the  crowd. 

And  then  the  horses  were  starting,  and  the  officers  had 
no  time  to  think  of  anything  else.  For  some  time,  Vivia 
and  Lady  Agnes  kept  neck  and  neck.  The  excitement  and 
betting  were  immense.  Captain  D^iiglas  doubles  his  wager 
— Vivia  gets  ahead — a  shout  arises — she  keeps  ahead — 
Lady  Agnes  is  dead  beat  I  and  Vivia,  amid  a  tremendous 
cheer,  comes  triumphantly  in  the  winner. 

"  That's  three  thousand  pounds  in  my  pocket !  "  said 
Captain  Douglas,  coolly.  "  Hallo,  Shirley !  What's  the 
row  ?  " 

For  Tom  Shirley  was  tearing  along,  very  red  in  the  face, 
his  elbows  in  the  ribs  of  society,  and  looking  as  much  like 
a  distracted  meteor  as  ever.  He  halted  in  a  high  state  of 
excitement  at  the  captain's  salute. 

"  The  most  glorious  sight !  Such  a  girl  1  You  ought  to 
see  her!     She's  positively  stunning  !  " 

"  Who's  stunning,  Tom  ?  Don't  be  in  a  hurry  to  answer. 
You're  completely  blown." 

"  I'll  be  blown  again,  then,  if  I  stop  talking  here  !  If 
you  want  to  see  her,  come  along,  and  look  for  yourself." 

"  I'm  your  man  1 "  said  the  captain,  thrusting  his  arm 
through  Tom's  and  sticking  his  other  elbow,  after  that 
spirited  young  gentleman's  fashion,  into  the  sides  of  every- 
body who  opposed  him.  "  And  now  relieve  my  curiosity, 
like  a  good  fellow,  as  we  go  along." 

"  Oh,  it's  a  tight-rope  dancer  1 "  said  Tom.  "  Make  haste, 
or  you  won't  see  her,  and  it's  a  sight  to  see,  I  tell  you  I  " 

"  Is  she  pretty,  Tom  ?  " 

"  A  regular  trump  I  "  said  Tom.  '  "  Get  out  of  the  way, 


lij 


r 


^m 

^ 

i 


'. 


% 


36        THE  HEIRESS  OK  CASTI.E  CUFFE. 

you  old  kangaroo,  or  I'll  pitch  you  into  the  middle  of  next 

week." 

This  last  apostrophe  was  addressed  to  a  stout  gentleman, 
who  came  along  panting,  and  snorting,  and  mopping  his  race. 
And  as  the  old  gentleman  and  everybody  else  got  out  of  the 
way  of  this  human  whirlwind  in  horror,  they  soon  found 
themselves  before  a  large  canvas  tent,  around  which  an 
immense  concourse  of  people,  young  and  old,  were  gathered. 
A  great  pole,  fifty  feet  high,  ^tuck  up  through  the  middle  of 
this  tent,  and  a  thick  wire-rope  came  slanting  down  to  the 
ground.  Two  or  three  big  men,  in  a  bright  uniform  of 
scarlet  and  yellow,  were  keeping  the  throng  away  from  this, 
and  a  band  of  modern  troubadours,  with  brass  instruments 
in  their  mouths,  were  discoursing  the  "  British  Grenadiers." 
A  very  little  boy  was  beating  a  very  big  drum  in  a  very 
large  way,  so  that  when  the  captain  spoke,  he  had  to  shout 
as  people  do  through  an  ear-trumpet. 

"  How  are  we  to  get  through  this  crowd  to  the  tent,  if  the 
damsel  you  speak  of  is  within  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  she'll  be  out  presently  I  "  said  Tom  ;  "  she  is  goinjg 
to  give  the  common  herd  a  specimen  of  her  powers,  by 
climbing  up  to  the  dizzy  top  of  that  pole,  and  dancing  the 
polka  mazurka,  or  an  Irish  jig,  or  something  of  that  sort, 
on  the  top.  And  while  we  are  waiting  for  her,  just  look 
here!" 

The  captain  looked.  On  every  hand  there  were  huge 
placards,  with  letters  three  feet  long,  in  every  color  of  the 
rainbow,  so  that  he  who  ran  might  read,  and  the  text  of 
these  loud  posters  was  somewhat  in  this  fashion : 


I    _    .^  UNRIVALED    ATTRACTION. 

Unprecedented  Ittducement ! 

Thk  Infant  Venus  ! 

The  Pet  and  Favorite  of  the  Royal  Family,  the  Nobility,  and  Gentry 
of  England ! 

Come  one !     Come  all ! 
The  Infant  Venus !    The  Infant  Venus !  I    The  Infant  Venus!  1  I 
Admission,  6d. :  Children,  half  price. 
\ 

By  the  time  the  captain  had  got  to  the  end  of  this  absorb- 
ing piece  of  literature,  a  murmuring  and  swaying  mqtion  of 


TWJSIyVE  YEARS  AFTER. 


37 


the  crowd,  told  him  that  the  Infant  Venus  herself  had  ap- 
peared in  the  outer  world.  There  was  a  suppressed  rush — 
the  men  in  scarlet  jackets  flourished  their  batons  danger- 
ously near  the  noses  of  the  dear  public.  There  was  an  ex- 
cited murmur:  '•  Where  is  she  ?  "  "What  is  she  like?" 
''  Oh,  I  can't  see  her  I  "  And  everybody's  eyes  were  start- 
ing out  of  their  heads  to  make  sure  that  the  Infant  Venus 
was  of  real  ticsh  and  blood,  and  not  an  optical  delusion. 
But  soon  they  were  satisfied.  A  glittering  figure,  sparkling 
and  shining  like  the  sunlight  from  head  to  foot,  bearing  the 
Union  Jai  k  of  Old  England  in  either  hand,  went  fluttering 
up  this  slender  wire.  The  crowd  held  its  breath,  the  music 
changed  to  a  quick,  wild  measure,  and  the  beautiful  vision 
floated  up  In  the  sunshine,  keeping  time  to  the  exciting  strain. 
It  was  the  li/Mit,  slender  figure  of  a  girl  of  thirteen  or  four- 
teen, with  tiic  little  tapering  feet  gleaming  in  spangled 
slippers  of  while  satin,  the  slight  form  arrayed  in  a  short 
white  gossamer  skirt  reaching  to  the  knee ;  and,  like  the 
slippers,  all  over  silver  spangles.  Down  over  the  bare  white 
shoulders  waved  such  a  glorious  fall  of  golden-bronze  hair, 
lialf  waves,  half  curls,  such  as  few  children  ever  had  before ; 
and  the  shining  tresses  were  crowned  with  ivy  leaves  and 
white  roses.  The  face  was  as  beautiful  as  the  hair,  but  in- 
stead of  the  blue  or  brown  eyes  that  should  have  gone  with 
it,  they  were  of  intensest  black,  and  veiled  by  sweeping 
lashes  of  the  same  color.  The  music  arose,  quicker  and 
faster,  the  silvery  vision,  scintillating  and  shining,  flashed 
up,  and  up,  and  up,  with  her  waving  flags,  till  she  looked 
like  a  bright,  white  speck  against  the  blue  summer  sky,  and 
the  lookeis  on  hushed  the  very  beating  of  their  hearts.  One 
false  step — one  dizzy  turn,  and  that  white  frock  will  cover  a 
bleeding  and  mangled  little  form,  and  the  bronze  hair  will 
be  crimson  in  blood.  But  she  is  at  the  top ;  she  is  looking 
down  upon  them,  she  waves  her  flags  triumphant  in  her  eagle 
eyrie,  and  a  mighty  cheer  goes  up  from  a  hundred  throats, 
that  makes  the  whole  plain  ring.  And  now  the  music 
changes  again ;  it  grows  slower,  and  the  fairy  in  silver 
spangles  begins  to  descend.  If  she  should  miss,  even  now  I 
But  no,  she  is  on  the  ground  even  before  they  can  realize  it, 
and  then  there  is  another  shout  louder  than  the  first ;  the 
band  strikes  up  an  "  lo  Triomphe,"  and  Tom  and  the  cap- 


J   1' 


)  *• 


38         THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTlvE  CI.IFFE.     ^ 

tain  take  off  their  own  liats,  and  cheer  louder  than  any  o£ 
the  rest.     And  the  brave  little  beauty  bows  right  and  left, 
and  vanishes  like  any  other  fairy,  and  is  seen  no  more. 
"  Didn't  I  tell  you  she  was  stunning  ?  "  cried  Tom,  exult- 

ingly. 

"  Tom,  you  re  an  oracle !     Is  she  going  to  do  anything 

within?" 

"  Lots  of  things — look  at  that  rush  !  " 

There  was  a  rush,  sure  enough.  The  doors  had  been 
opened,  and  everybody  was  scrambling  in  pell-mell.  Six- 
pences and  threepences  were  flying  about  like  hailstones  in 
a  March  storm,  and  w^omen  and  children  were  getting  torn 
and  "  squeezed  to  death." 

Tom  and  tlie  captain  fought  their  way  through  with  the 
rest.  Two  people  were  taking  money  at  the  door  in  which 
they  entered — a  man  and  woman.  They  paid  their  sixpences, 
made  a  rush  for  a  seat,  and  took  it  in  triumph.  Still  the 
crowd  poured  in — it  might  have  been  the  beauty  of  the  girl, 
her  dizzying  walk  up  the  wire-rope,  or  the  rumor  of  her  danc- 
ing, that  brought  them,  but  certainly  the  canvas  tent  was 
filled  from  its  sawdust  pit  to  its  tented  roof.  They  were  not 
kept  long  waiting  for  the  rising  of  the  curtain,  either — the 
same  thing  was  to  be  played  at  last  half  a  dozen  times  that 
day,  so  the  moments  w  ere  precious  ;  and  the  solemn  green 
curtain  went  up  in  ten  minutes,  and  they  saw  the  youthful 
Venus  rise  up  from  the  sea-foam,  with  her  beautiful  hair  un- 
bound, and  floating  around  her,  her  white  robes  trailing  in 
the  brine,  and  King  Neptune  and  Queen  Amphitrite,  and 
thcir  mermaid  court,  and  the  graces  and  attendant  sylphs,  all 
around  her.  The  scene  was  all  sea  and  moonlight ;  and  she 
floated,  in  her  white  dress,  across  the  moonlit  stage,  like  a 
fairy  in  a  magic  ring.  The  tent  shook  with  the  applause  ; 
and  nobody  ever  danced  in  trailing  robes  as  she  did  then. 
The  contest  for  the  crown  of  beauty  arose — Juno,  Minerva 
and  Venus  were  all  there  ;  and  so  was  the  arbiter  and  judge. 
Venus,  says  legendary  lore,  bore  away  the  palm,  as  much  on 
account  of  her  scanty  draper}'  as  her  unparalleled  loveliness. 
The  Venus  standing  before  them  there  was  scantily  enough 
draped,  Heaven  knows  !  the  dainty  and  uncovered  neck^nd 
arms  whiter  than  her  dress,  one  as  short  as  the  heart  of  any 
ballet-dancer  could  desire ;  and  oh  1  what  another  storm  of 


TWEI.VK  YEARS  AFTER. 


39 


applause  there  was  when  Paris  gave  her  the  gold  apple,  and 
Juno  and  Minerva  danced  ?l  pas  de  deuxoi  exasperation,  and 
she  floated  round  them  like  a  spirit  in  a  dream  i  And  then 
she  bowed  and  smiled  at  the  audience,  and  kissed  her  finger- 
tips to  them,  and  vanished  behind  the  green  curtain ;  and 
then  it  was  all  over,  and  everybody  was  pouring  out  in 
ecstasies  of  delight. 

"  Isn't  she  splendid  ?  "  cried  Tom,  in  transport.  "  She 
beats  the  ballet  dancers  I  saw  when  I  was  in  London  all  to 
sticks.  And  then  she  is  as  good  looking  as  an  enchanted 
princess  in  the  *  Arabian  Nights  '  I  " 

"  My  dear  Tom,  moderate  your  transports.  I  wonder  if 
there's  any  way  of  finding  out  anything  more  about  her  ?  I 
must  confess  to  feeling  a  trifle  interested  in  her  myself." 

"  Let  us  ask  the  old  codger  at  the  door." 

"Agreed."  ^  . .  -       '-■      ■•       -  -  ■ 

The  twain  made  their  way  to  the  door,  where  the  old  cod- 
ger, as  Tom  styled  the  black-browed,  sullen-looking  man  who 
had  taken  ^l":e  money,  stood  counting  over  his  gains  with 
his  female  companion — a  little,  stooping,  sharjveyed,  vix- 
enish looking  old  woman.  The  man  looked  up  as  Captain 
Douglas  lightly  touched  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"  See  here,  my  friend,  that  is  a  very  pretty  little  girl  you 
have  there  1 " 

"  Glad  you  like  her  I  "  said  the  man,  with  a  sort  of  growl. 

"  I  thought  you  would  be.     What's  her  name  ?  " 

"Her  name?  Can't  you  read?  Her  name  is  out  there 
on  them  bills !     Don't  you  see  she  is  the  Infant  Venus  ?  " 

"  But  I  presume,  for  the  ccrtnmon  uses  of  everyday  life, 
she  has  another  ?  Come,  old  fellow,  don't  be  disobliging — 
let's  hear  it." 

"  Not  as  I  know  on,"  growled  the  questioned  one,  civilly. 

Tom,  combating  a  severe  mental  resolve  to  punch  his 
head,  then  drew  out  a  sovereign  instead,  and  flourished  it 
before  his  eyes, 

"  Look -here,  old  chap  1  ttU  us  all  about  her,  and  I'll  give 
you  this." 

"  I'll  tell  you  1  "  said  the  old  woman,  snapping  with  vicious 
eagerness  at  the  money.  "  She's  his  daughter,  and  I'm  his 
mother,  and  she's  my  granddaughter,  and  her  name's  Bar- 
bara Black  I     Give  it  here  !  ^'' 


40         THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CUFFK, 

Before  Tom  could  recover  his  breath,  jerked  out  of  him 
by  the  volubility  with  which  this  confession  was  poured  forth, 
the  old  woman  had  snatched  the  coin  out  of  his  hand,  and 
was  thrusting  it,  with  a  handful  of  silver,  into  her  pocket, 
when  a  pleasant  voice  behind  her  exclaimed : 

'*  Dear  little  Barbara,  the  prettiest  little  fairy  that  ever  was 
seen,  and  the  very  image  of  her  charming  grandmother ! " 

All  looked  at  the  speaker — a  gentleman  in  a  canary-col- 
ored waistcoat,  wearing  gold  studs  and  breastpin,  a  gold 
watch-chain  with  a  profusion  of  shimmering  gold  talismans 
attached,  a  lemon-colored  glove  on  one  hand,  and  a  great 
gold  ring  on  the  other,  with  a  yellow  seal  thal^  reached  nearly 
to  the  second  joint ;  a  saffronish  complexion,  and  yellow 
hair,  that  seemed  to  encircle  his  head  like  a  glory — a  gentle- 
man who  glittered  in  the  sunlight  almost  as  much  as  the 
Infant  "Venus  herself,  and  whose  cheerful  face  wore  the 
pleasantest  of  smiles — a  gentleman  to  make  you  smile  from 
sympathy  as  you  looked  at  him,  and  not  at  all  to  be  afraid 
of ;  but  as  the  grandmother  of  the  Infant  Venus  laid  her 
eyes  upon  him,  she  uttered  a  terrified  scream,  dropped  the 
handful  of  gold  and  silver,  and  fled. 


*     .        '^ 


>  V      ^   :»«■ 


THE  PRODIGAIv  SON. 


41 


CHAPTER  V. 


THE    PRODIGAL    SON. 

**  Ah,  Sweet,  how  are  you  ? "  said  Tom,  nodding  famil- 
iarly to  the  newcomer.     "What  the  dickens  ails  the  old 

girl  ? " 

"  A  hard  question  to  answer.  She  is  out  a  little,  you 
know  "  (Mr.  Sweet  tapped  his  forehead  significantly  with  his 
forefinger,  and  looked  at  the  man) — "  just  a  little  here !  " 

"  Can  we  speak  to  the  Infant  Venus  ?  "  asked  Tom  of  the 
old  codger. 

"  I  tell  you  v/hat,  gents,"  was  the  angry  reply,  "  I  want 
you  three  to  clear  out  of  this  I  There  are  other  ladies  and 
gents  a-coming  in,  and  I  can't  be  having  you  a-loitering 
round  here  all  day  1     Come  !  " 

"  Quite  right,"  said  Mr.  Sweet,  in  his  pleasant  way.  "  Mr. 
Tom,  I  heard  Lady  Agnes  asking  for  you  a  short  tin\e  ago. 
Captain  Douglas,  the  major  told  me  to  say,  if  I  found  you, 
he  had  a  little  commission  for  you  to  execute.  Mr.  Tom,  I 
believe  her  ladyship  wishes  to  go  home." 

"  All  right !  "  said  Tom,  boyishly,  moving  away  arm-in- 
arm with  the  captain  ;  and  turning  his  head  as  he  went : 
"Give  my  love  to  Barbara,  you  old  bear,  and  don't  let  her 
be  risking  her  precious  little  neck  climbling  up  that  horrid 
wire  or  I'll  break  your  head  for  you  !      Vale  !  " 

With  which  gentle  valedictory  Tom  and  the  captain  moved 
away  ;  and  the  doorkeeper  looked  after  them  with  a  growl ; 
but  tie  growled  more  when  he  found  Mr.  Sweet  standing 
still  before  him,  gazing  up  in  his  face  with  a  soft  smile,  and 
showing  no  signs  of  moving. 

"  Come  1  get  out  of  this  !  "  he  began,  gruffly. 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  said  Mr.  Sweet.  "  By  no  means  ;  not  at  all ; 
not  yet.  'Tis  just  the  hour.  Moore  found  that  out,  you 
know.     I  want  to  see  che  old  lady  who  ran  away."        ■» 


1 


42 


THH  HKIR^S  OF  CASTI.E  CI.IFFK. 


"  You  will  want  it,  then  I     Be  off,  I  tell  you  1  " 

"  My  dear  fellow,  don't  raise  your  voice  in  that  unpleasant 
manner.  People  will  hear  you,  and  I'm  sure  you  would  re- 
gret it  after.  Do  lead  me  to  that  dear  old  lady  again — your 
mother,  I  think  you  said." 

And  Mr.  Sweet  patted  him  soothingly  on  the  back. 

"  I'll  break  your  neck  I "  cried  the  exasperated  man, 
snatching  up  a  cudgel  that  stood  beside  him,  and  flourish- 
ing it  in  a  way  that  showed  he  was  most  unpleasantly  in 
earnest,  "  if  you  stay  another  minute  here." 

The  two  men  were  looking  straight  at  each  other — the  one 
with  furious  eyes,  the  other,  perfectly  serene.  There  is  a 
magnetism,  they  say,  in  a  calm,  commanding  human  eye_ 
that  can  make  an  enraged  tiger  crouch  and  tremble.  Mr. 
Sweet's  eyes  were  very  small,  and  were  mostly  hid  under 
two  thick,  yellow  eyebrows  ;  but  they  were  wonderful  eyes 
for  all  that.  The  man  with  the  stick  was  a  big,  stout  fellow, 
who  would  have  made  two  of  him  easily  ;  but  he  slowly 
dropped  his  stick  and  his  eyes,  and  crouched  like  a  whipped 
hound  before  his  master. 

•*  What  do  you  want  ?  "  he  demanded,  with  his  customary 
growl,  "  a-coming  and  bullying  a  man  what's  been  and  done 
nothing  to  you.  I  wish  you  would  clear  out.  There's  cus- 
tomers coming  in,  and  you're  ih  the  way." 

"  But  I  couldn't  think  of  such  a  thing,"  said  Mr.  Sweet, 
quite  laughing.     "  I  couldn't,  indeed,  until  I've  seen  the  old   ' 
lady.     Dear  old  lady  1  do  take  me  to  her,  my  friend." 

Muttering  to  himself,  but  still  cowed,  the  man  led  on 
through  the  rows  of  benches,  pushed  aside  the  green  curtain, 
and  jumped  on  the  low  stage.  Mr.  Sweet  followed,  and 
entered  v/ith  him  the  temporary  green-room,  pausing  in  the 
doorway  to  survey  it.  A  horrible  place,  full  of  litter  and 
dirt,  and  disorder,  and  painted  men  and  women,  and  chil- 
dren and  noise,  and  racket,  and  uproar.  There  w  xs  a  row  of 
little  looking-glasses  stuck  all  round  the  wall,  and  some  of 
the  players  were  standing  before  them,  looking  unutterably 
ghastly  with  one  cheek  painted  blooming  red,  and  the  other 
of  a  grisly  whiteness.  And  in  the  midst  of  all  this  confu- 
sion, *'  worse  confounded,"  there  sat  the  Infant  Venus,  look- 
ing as  beautiful  off  the  stage  as  she  had  done  on  it,  and 
needing  no  paint  or  tawdry  tinsel  to  make  her  so.    And  there, 


THE  PRODIGAL  SON. 


43 


sant 

re- 

rour 


lan, 
[•ish- 
in 


on 


crouching  down  in  the  furthest  corner,  horribly  frightened, 
as  every  feature  of  her  old  face  showed,  was  the  dear  old 
lady  they  were  in  search  of.  The  noise  ceased  at  the  en- 
trance of  the  stranger,  and  all  paused  in  their  manifold  oc- 
cupations to  stare,  and  the  old  woman  crouched  further  away 
in  her  corner,  and  held  out  her  shaking  hands  as  if  to  keep 
him  off.  But  Mr.  Sweet,  in  his  benevolent  designs,  was  not 
one  to  be  so  easily  kept  off ;  and  he  went  over  and  patted 
the  old  lady  encouragingly  on  the  back,  as  he  had  done  her 
son.  ,  •.: 

"  My  good  old  soul,  don't  be  so  nervous  !  There  is  no 
earthly  reason  why  you  should  tremble  and  look  like  this.  I 
wouldn't  hurt  a  fly,  I  wouldn't.  Do  compose  yourself,  and 
tell  me  what  is  the  matter." 

The  old  woman  made  an  effort  to  speak,  but  her  teeth 
chattered  in  her  head. 

"  You  said  you  were — you  said " 

"  Precisely  I  That  was  exactly  what  I  said,  that  I  was 
going  to  America  ;  but  I  haven't  gone,  you  see.  I  couldn't 
leave  England,  I  couldn't  really.  *  England,  my  country, 
great  and  free,  heart  of  the  world,  I  leap  to  thee,'  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing,  you  know.  What  ?  you're  shaking  yet. 
Oh,  now,  really,  you  mustn^t,  it  quite  hurts  my  feelings  to 
see  one  at  your  time  of  life  taking  on  in  this  fashion.  Per- 
mit me  to  help  you  up,  and  assist  you  to  a  chair.  There  is 
none — very  well,  this  candh-box  will  do  beautifully." 

With  which  Mr.  Sweet  assisted  the  old  lady  to  arise,  placed 
her  on  the  box,  amid  the  wondering  company,  and  smiling 
m  his  pleasant  way  around  on.  them  *all,  pursued  his  dis- 
course. 

"  These  good  ladies  and  gentlemen  here  look  surprised, 
and  it  is  quite  natural  they  should  ;  but  I  can  assure  them 
you  and  I  are  old  und  tried  friends,  and  I  will  intrude 
on  them  but  a  few  minutes  longer.  I  am  anxious  to 
say  five  words  in  private  to  your  son,  my  worthy  soul  I  and 
lest  his  naturally  prudent  nature  should  induce  him  to  de- 
cline, I  have  come  to  you  to  obtain  your  maternal  persua- 
sions in  my  favor.  I  will  step  to  the  door  and  wait,  but  I'm 
sure  he  will  listen  and  obey  the  words  of  a  tender  mother," 

Humming  an  air  as  he  went,  Mr.  Sweet  walked  out,  after 
bowing  politely  to  the  company,  and  waited  with  the  utmost 


I' 


j 


I 


I  f 


44        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CUFFE. 

patience  for  some  ten  minutes  at  the  door.  At  the  end  of 
that  period  the  gentleman  waited  for  made  his  appearance, 
looking  sour,  suspicious  and  discontented.  Mr.  Sweet  in- 
stantly took  his  arm  and  led  him  out  in  his  pleasant  way. 

"  Dear  old  fellow  I  I  knew  you  would  come — in  fact,  I 
was  perfectly  sure  of  it.  About  fifty  yards  from  this  place 
there  is  a  clump  of  birch  trees,  overhanging  a  hedge,  a  gceat 
place  where  nobody  ever  comes.     Do  you  know  it?  " 

A  sulky  nod  was  the  answer. 

"  Very  well.  Have  the  goodness  to  precede  me  there — 
people  might  say  something  if  they  saw  us  go  together.  I 
have  a  very  interesting  little  story  to  tell  you,  which  will  not 
bear  more  than  one  listener,  and  that  dark  spot  is  just  the 
place  to  tell  it  in.     Go  on  I " 

The  man  paused  for  one  moment  and  looked  at  him  in 
mingled  suspicion  and  fear ;  but  Mr.  Sweet  was  pointing 
steadily  out.  And,  muttering  in  his  peculiar,  growling  tones, 
like  those  of  a  beaten  cur,  he  slunk  away  in  the  direction  in- 
dicated. The  distance  was  short ;  he  made  his  way  through 
the  crowd  and  soon  reacned  the  spot,  a  gloomy  place  with 
white  birches,  casting  long  cool  shadows  over  the  hot  grass, 
in  an  obscure  corner  of  the  grounds  where  nobody  came. 
There  was  an  old  stump  of  a  tree,  rotting  under  the  fragrant 
hawthorn  hedge ;  the  man  sat  down  on  it,  took  a  pipe  out  of 
his  pocket,  lit  it,  and  began  to  smoke.  As  he  took  the  first 
whiff,  something  glistened  before  him  in  the  sun,  and  raising 
his  sullen  eyes,  they  rested  on  the  smiling  visage  of  Mr. 
Sweet. 

"  Ah,  that's  right  1  "  that  gentleman  began  in  his  lively 
way ;  "  make  yourself  perfectly  comfortable,  my  dear  Black 
— youi  lame  is  Black,  is  it  not — Peter  Black,  eh  ?  " 

Mr.  Black  nodded,  and  smoked  away  like  a  volcano.     '  ^ 

"  Mine's  Sweet — Sylvester  Sweet,  solicitor  at  law,  and  agent 
and  steward  of  the  estates  of  Lady  Agnes  Shirley,  of  Castle 
Cliff e.  And  now  th-.c  we  mutually  know  each  other,  I  am 
sure  you  will  be  pleased  to  have  me  proceed  to  business  at 
once." 


There  was  a  rustic  stile  in  the  hawthorn  hedge  quite  close 
to  where  Mr.  Black  sat.  Mr.  Sweet  took  a  seat  upon  it,  and 
looked  down  on  him,  smiling  all  over. 

"  Perhaps  you're  surprised,  my  dear  Mr.  Black,  that  I 


THE  PRODIGAI,  SON, 


45 


should  know  you  as  if  you  were  my  brother,  and  you  may  be 
still  further  surprised  when  you  hear  that  it  was  solely  and 
exclusively  on  your  account  that  I  have  come  to  these  races. 
I  am  not  a  betting  man ;  I  haven't  the  slightest  interest  in 
any  of  these  horses ;  I  don't  care  a  snap  who  wins  or  who 
loses,  and  I  detest  crowds  ;  but  I  wouldn't  have  stayed  away 
from  these  races  for  a  thousand  pounds  1  And  all,  my  dear 
fellow,"  said  Mr.  Sweet,  jingling  his  watch-seals  till  they 
seemed  laughing  in  chorus,  "  all  because  I  knew  you  were 
to  be  here." 

Mr.  Black,  smoking  away  in  grim  silence,  and  looking^ 
stolidly  before  him,  might  have  been  deaf  or  dumb  for  all 
the  interest  or  curiosity  he  manifested. 

"  You  appear  indifferent,  my  good  Black ;  but  I  think  I 
will  manage  to  interest  you  yet  before  we  part.  I  have  the 
most  charming  little  story  to  relate,  and  I  must  go  back — 
let  me  see — eleven  years." 

Mr.  Black  gave  the  slightest  perceptible  start,  but  still  he 
neither  looked  up  nor  spoke. 

"  Some  fifteen  miles  north  of  London,"  said  Mr.  Sweet, 
playing  away  with  his  watch-seals,  "  there  is  a  dirty  little 
village  called  Worrel,  and  in  this  village  there  lived,  eleven 
years  ago,  a  man  named  Jack  Wildman,  ketter  know  to  his 
pot-house  companions  by  the  sobriquet  of  Black  Jack." 

Mr.  Peter  Black  jumped  as  if  he  had  been  shot,  and  the 
pipe  dropped  from  his  mouth,  and  was  shivered  into  atoms 
at  his  feet. 

"  What  is  it  ?  Been  stung  by  a  wasp  or  a  hornet  ?  "  in- 
quired Mr.  Sweet,  kindly.  "  Those  horrible  little  insects  are 
in  swarms  around  here  ;  but  sit  down,  my  good  Black  ;  sit 
down,  and  take  another  pipe — got  none  ?  Well,  never  mind. 
This  Black  Jack  I  was  telling  you  of  was  a  mason  by  trade, 
earning  good  woges,  and  living  very  comfortably  with  a  wife 
and  one  child,  a  little  girl ;  and  I  think  her  name  was  Bar- 
bara. Do  sit  down,  Mr.  Black ;  and  don't  look  at  me  in 
that  uncomfortably  steadfast  way — it's  not  polite  to  stare, 
you  know !  " 

Mr.  Black  crouched  back  in  his  seat ;  but  his  hands  were 
clenched  and  his  face  was  livid. 

"  This  man,  as  I  told  you,  was  getting  good  wages,  and 
was  doing  well ;  but  he  was  one  -of  those  discontented,  un- 


46         THE  HEIRESS  OE  CASTI.E  CLIFFE. 

grateful  curs,  who,  like  a  spaniel,  required  to  be  whipped  and 
kicked  to  be  made  keep  his  plaCv.  He  got  dissatisfied  ;  he 
went  among  his  fellow-laborers,  and  stirred  up  a  feeling  of  _. 
mutinous  revolt.  There  was  a  strike,  and  to  their  great 
amazement  and  disgust,  their  masters  took  them  at  their 
word,  hired  other  workmen,  and  told  the  cross-grained  dogs  to 
beg  or  starve,  just  as  they  pleased.  They  grew  fuiious,  houses 
were  set  on  fire,  the  new  workmen  were  waylaid  and 
beaten,  works  were  demolished,  and  no  end  of  damage  done. 
But  it  did  not  last  long ;  the  law  has  a  long  arm  and  a 
strong  hand,  and  it  reached  the  disaffected  stone-masons  of 
Worrel.  A  lot  of  tliem  were  taken  one  night  after  having 
set  a  house  on  lire,  and  beaten  an  inoffensive  man  to  death ; 
and  three  moTiths  after,  the  whole  villainous  gang  were  trans- 
ported for  life  to  New  South  Wales.  Allow  me  to  give  you 
a  cigar,  my  dear  Black  ;  I  am  sure  you  can  listen  better,  and 
I  can  talk  better  smoking." 

There  was  a  strong  club,  with  an  iron   head,  that  some 
one  had  dropped,  lying  near.     Mr.  Black  picked  it  up,   and    '" 
sprung  to  his  feet,   with  a  furious  face.     The   motion  was     - 
quick,  but  his  companion  had  made  a  quicker  one ;  he   had 
thrust  his  hand  into  his  breast-pocket,  and  drawn  oi't  some- 
thing that  clicked  sharply. 

"  Dear  old  boy,  keep  cool  I  No  good  ever  comes  of  act- 
ing on  impulse,  and  this  is  a  hair-trigger  1  Sit  down — do — 
and  throw  that  club  over  the  hedge,  or  I'll  blow  your  brains 
out  as  I  would  a  mad  dog's  i  " 

Mr.  Sweet's  voice  was  as  soft  as  the  notes  of  an  ^olian  , 
harp,  and  his  smile  was  perfectly  seraphic.  But  his  pistol 
was  within  five  inches  of  Mr.  Black's  countenance  ;  and 
snarling  like  a  baffled  tiger,  he  did  throw  the  club  over  the 
hedge,  and  slunk  back  with  a  face  so  distorted  by  fear  and 
fury,  that  it  was  scarcely  human. 

"  Dear  boy,  if  you  would  only  be  sensible  and  keep  quiet  \' 
like  that ;  but  you  are  so  impulsive  I  Mr.  Wildman  was  trans- 
ported, and  is  probably  founding  a  flourishing  c61ony  in  that 
delightful  land,  at  this  present  moment,  for  nobody  ever 
heard  of  him  again.  But  some  five  months  ago,  there  ar- 
rived in  London,  from  some  unknown  quarter,  a  gentleman 
by  the  name  of  Black — Peter  Black,  who  was  so  charmingly 
got  up  with  the  aid  of  a  wig,  false  whiskers  and  mustaches, 


THE  PRODIGAI.  SON. 


47 


le. 

a 

of 


and  a  suit  of  sailor's  clothes,  that  this  own  dear  mother 
couldn't  have  known  him.  In  fact,  that  venerable  lady 
didn't  know  him  at  all,  when  after  a  month's  diligent  search 
and  inquiry  he  found  her  out,  and  paid  her  an  unexpected 
visit ;  but  it  was  a  delightful  meeting.  Don't  ask  me  to 
describe  it ;  no  known  words  in  the  English  lanjguage  could 
do  justice  to  a  mother's  feelings  on  meeting  a  lost  son — and 
such  a  son  !  Ah,  dear  me  !  "  said  Mr.  Sweet,  taking  his 
cigar  between  his  finger  and  thumb,  and  looking  down  at  it 
with  a  pensive  sigh. 

Mr.  Peter  Black,  crouching  down  between  the  trunks  of 
the  trees,  and  glaring  with  eyes  like  those  of  a  furious  buU- 
'^og  about  to  spring,  did  not  seem  exactly  the  sort  of  son  for 
any  mother  to  swoon  with  delight  at  seeing  ;  but  then,  tastes 
differ.  Mr.  Sweet  knocked  the  ashes  daintily  off  the  end  of 
his  cigar,  replaced  it  between  his  lips,  looked  brightly  down 
on  the  glaring  eyes,  and  went  on. 

"  Mr.  Peter  Black,  when  the  first  transports  of  meeting 
were  over,  found  that  the  relict  of  the  late  transported  Mr. 
Wildman  had  departed — let  us  hope  to  a  better  land — and 
that  his  mother  had  adopted  Miss  Barbara,  then  a  charming 
young  lady  of  eleven  and  the  most  popular  little  tight-rope 
dancer  in  London.  Miss  Barbara  was  introduced  to  Mr. 
Black,  informed  he  was  her  father,  just  returned  after  a  long 
cruise,  and  no  end  of  shipwrecks,  and  through  her  influence, 
a  place  was  procured  for  him  a^j  ticket -porter  in  the  theater. 
It  was  a  wandering  affair  that  sam*^  theater,  and  Mr.  Black 
and.  his  charming  daughter  and  mot)ier  went  roving  with  it 
over  the  country,  and  finally  came  with  it  to  the  Cliftonlea 
races.  Sly  old  fox  I  how  you  sit  there  drinking  in  every 
word — do  let  me   prevail  on  you  to  light  this  cigar." 

He  threw  a  fragrant  Havana  as  he  spoke  from  his  cigar- 
case  ;  but  the  sly  old  fox  let  it  roll  on  the  grass  at  his  feet, 
•  and  never  took  his  savage  eyes  off  the  sunny  face  of  the 
lawyer.  His  face  was  so  frightfully  pale,  that  the  unearthly 
glare  and  the  mat  of  coarse  black  hair,  made  it  look  by 
contrast  quite  dreadful. 

"  You  won't  have  it — well,  no  matter  ?  How  do  you  like 
my  story  ?  " 

"  You  devil,"  said  Mr.  Black,  speaking  for  the  first  time 
and  in  a  horrible  voice,  "  where  did  you  learn  my  story?" 


i   I  ' 


48         THE  HEIRKSS  OF  CASTI.E  CI.IFFE. 

"  Your  story,  eh  ?  I  thought  you  would  find  it  interest- 
ing. No  matter  where  I  learned  it,  I  know  you,  Mr.  Peter 
Black,  as  pat  as  my  prayers,  and  I  intend  to  use  that  knowl- 
edge, you  may  take  your  oath  I  You  are  as  much  my  slave 
as  if  I  bought  you  in  the  Southern  States  of  America  for  so 
many  hundred  dollars ;  as  much  my  dog  as  if  I  had  you 
chained  and  kenneled  in  my  yard  I  Don't  stir,  you  returned 
transport,  or  I'll  shoot  you  where  you  stand." 

With  the  ferocious  eyes  blazing,  and  the  tiger-jaws  sr..irl- 
ing,  Mr.  Bbck  crawled  in  spirit  in  the  dust  at  the  feet  of  the 
calm-voiced,  yellow-haired  lawyer. 

"  And  now,  Mr.  Black,  you  understand  why  I  brought  you 
here  to  tell  you  this  little  story ;  and  as  you've  listened  to  it 
with  exemplary  patience,  you  may  listen  now  to  the  sequel. 
The  first  thing  you  are  to  do  is,  to  quit  this  roving  theater, 
you,  and  the  dAr  old  lady,  and  the  pretty  little  tight-rope 
dancer.  You  can  remain  with  them  to-day,  but  tornight 
you  will  go  to  the  Cliffe  Arms,  the  three  of  you,  and  remain 
there  until  I  give  you  leave  to  quit.  Have  you  money 
enough  to  pay  for  lodgings  there  a  week  ?  " 

Mr.  Black  uttered  some  guttural  sounds  by  way  of  reply, 
but  they  were  so  choked  in  his  throat  with  rage  and  terror 
that  they  were  undistinguishable. 

Mr.  Sweet  jumped  down  and  patted  him  on  the  shoulder 
with  a  good-natured  laugh. 

"  Speak  out,  old  fellow  I     Yes  or  no." 

"  Yes." 

"  You  won't  go  secretly,  you  know.  Tell  the  proprietor 
of  the  affair  that  you  like  this  place,  and  that  you  are  going 
to  settle  down  and  take  to  fishing  or  farming;  that  you 
don't  like  this  vagabond  kind  of  life  for  your  little  girl,  and  so 
on.  Go  to  the  Cliffe  Arms  to-night.  You'll  have  no  trouble 
in  getting  quarters  there,  and  you  and  your  delightful  family 
will  stay  till  I  see  fit  to  visit  you  again.  You  will  do  this,  my 
dear  boy — won't  you  ?  " 

"  You  know  I  must  I  "  said  the  man,  with  a  fiendish  scowl, 
and  his  fingers  convulsively  working,  as  if  he  would  have 
liked  to  spring  on  the  pleasant  law}'er  and  tear  him  limb 
from  limb. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know  it  I  "  said  Mr.  Sweet,  laughing  :  "  and  I 
know,  too,  that  if  you  should  attempt  to  play  any  tricks  on 


THE  PRODIGAI.  SON. 


49 


iSt- 

jter 
Iwl- 

ive 

so 

^ou 

»ed 


me,  that  I  will  have^ou  swinging  by  the  neck  from  the  Old 
Bailey  six  months  after.  But  you  needn't  be  afraid.  I  don't 
mean  to  do  you  any  harm.  On  the  contrary,  if  you  only 
follow  my  directions,  you  will  find  me  the  best  friend  you 
ever  had.     Now  go." 

Mr.  Black  rose  up,  and  turned  away,  but  before  he  had 
gone  two  yards  he  was  back  again. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  What  does  all  this  mean  ?  "  he 
asked,  In  a  husky  whisper. 

•'  Never  you  mind  that,  but  take  yourself  off.  I'm  done 
with  you  for  the  present.  Time  tells  everything,  and  time 
will  tell  what  I  want  with  you.     Off  with  you  1  " 

Mr.  Black  turned  again,  and  this  time  walked  steadily  out 
of  sight ;  and  when  he  was  entirely  gone,  Mr.  Sweet  broke 
into  a  musical  laugh,  threw  his  smoked-out  cigar  over  the 
hedge,  thrust  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  went  away 
whistling :  . 

.  *  "  My  love  is  but  a  lassie  yet." 


But  if  the  steward  and  agent  of  Lady  Agnes  Shirley  had 
given  the  father  of  the  Infant  Venus  a  most  pleasant  sur- 
prise, there  was  another  surprise  in  reserve  for  himself — 
whether  pleasant  or  not,  is  an  unanswerable  question.  He 
was  making  his  way  through  the  crowd,  lifting  his  hat  and 
nodding  and  smiling  right  and  left,  when  a  hearty  slap  on 
the  shoulder  from  behind  made  nim  turn  quickly,  as  an 
equally-hearty  voice  exclaimed : 

"  Sweet,  old  fellow,  how  goes  it  ? " 

A  tall  gentleman,  seemingly  about  thirty,  with  an  unmis- 
takably military  air  about  him,  although  dressed  in  civilian 
costume,  stood  before  him.  Something  in  the  peculiarly 
erect,  upright  carriage,  in  the  laughing  blue  eyes,  in  the  fair, 
curly  hair  and  characteristic  features,  were  familiar,  but  the 
thick  soldier's  mustache  and  sun-browned  skin  puzzled  him. 
Only  for  u  moment,  though ;  the  next  he  had  started  back, 
with  an  exclamation  of : 
•■  "  Lieutenant  Shirley  I  "         - 

"Colonel  Shirley,  if  you  please.  Do  you  suppose  I  have 
served  twelve  years  in  India  for  nothing — do  you?  Don't 
look  so  blanched,  man.     I  am  not  a  ghost,  but  the  same 


50         THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CLIFFE. 

scapegrace  you  used  to  lend  money  to  lang  syne.  Give  me 
your  hand,  and  I'll  show  you." 

Mr.  Sweet  held  out  his  hand,  and  received  such  a  bears* 
grip  from  the  Indian  officer  that  tears  of  pain  started  into 
his  eyes. 

*.'  Thank  you,  colonel ;  that  will  do,"  said  the  lawyer,  winc- 
ing, but  in  an  overjoyed  tone  all  the  same.  "  Who  could 
have  looked  for  such  an  unexpected  pleasure  ?  When  did 
you  arrive  ? " 

"  I  got  to  Southampton  last  night,  and  started  for  here  the 
first  thing.  How  are  all  our  people  ?  I  haven't  met  any 
one  I  know,  save  yourself ;  but  they  told  me  in  Cliftonlea 
Lady  Agnes  was  here."  •  •      /         :.    ..   ^  ;, 

"  So  she  is.     Come  along,  and  I'll  show  you  where." 

With  a  face  radiant  with  delight  and  surprise,  Mr.  Sweet 
led  the  way,  and  Colonel  Shirley  followed.  Many  of  the 
faces  that  passed  were  familiar.  Sir  Roland's  among  the  rest ; 
but  the  Indian  officer,  hurrying  on,  stopped  to  speak  to  no 
one.  The  file  of  carriages  soon  came  in  sight.  Mr.  Sweet 
pointed  out  the  pony  phaeton  ;  and  his  companion,  the  next 
instant,  was  measuring  oflf  the  road  toward  it  in  great  strides. 
Lady  Agnes,  with  Tom  beside  her,  was  just  giving  languid 
directions  about  driving  home,  when  a  handsome  face, 
bronzed  and  mustached,  was  looking  smilingly  down  on  her, 
a  hand  being  held  out,  and  a  well-known  voice  exclaiming: 

"Mother,  I  have  come  home  again  I  "  .  "^• 


■:'^, 


KII.I.ING  THE  FATTED  CAI.F. 


5J 


CHAPTER  VI. 


KILLING  THE  FATTED  CALF. 

It  is  a  vulgar  thing  to  h-  surprised  at  anything  in  this 
world.  Lady  Agnes  Shirley  was  too  great  a  lady  to  do  any- 
thing vulgar ;  so  the  common  herd  gathered  round  heard 
only  one  faint  cry,  and  saw  the  strange  gentleman's  hands 
wildly  grasping  both  the  great  lady's. 

'*  Don't  faint,  mother.  They  haven't  killed  me  in  India, 
and  it's  no  ghost,  but  your  good-for-nothing  son  Cliflfe  I  " 

"  Oh,  Cliffe  1— oh,  ClifTe  1  "  she  cried  out.  "  Is  this  really 
you  ? " 

"  It  really  is,  and  come  home  for  good,  if  you  will  let  me 
stay.     Amsl  forgiven  yet,  mother" 

"  My  darling  boy,  it  is  I  who  must  be  forgiven,  not  you. 
How  those  odious  people  are  staring  1     Tom,  jump  out,  and 
go  away.     Cliffe,  for  Heaven's  sake  I  get  in  here  and  drive 
-  out  of  this,  or  I  shall  die  1     Oh,  what  a  surprise  this  is  I  " 

Master  Tom,  with  his  eyes  starting  out  of  his  head  with 
astonishment,  obeyed,  and  the  Indian  officer  laughingly  took 
his  place,  touched  the  cream-colored  ponies  lightly,  and  off 
they  started,  amid  a  surprised  stare  from  fifty  pairs  of  eyes. 

"  Oh,  Cliflfe  !  I  cannot  realize  this.  When  did  you  come  ? 
Where  have  you  been  ?  What  have  you  been  doing  ?  Oh, 
I  am  dreaming,  I  think  1  " 

"Nothing  of  the  kind,  ma  mere.  There  is  not  a  tnore 
wide-awake  lady  in  England.  I  came  here  an  hour  ago,  I 
have  been  in  India  fighting  my  country's  battles,  and  get- 
ting made  a  colonel  for  my  pains." 

"  My  brave  boy  1  And  it  is  twelve  years — twelve  long, 
long  years  since  I  saw  you  last  I  Shall  I  ever  forget  that 
miserable  morning  in  London  ?  " 

"  Of  course  you  will.  Why  not  ?  Let  bygones  be  by- 
gones, as  the  Scots  say,  and  I  shall  settle  down  into  the  most 


■/'■r 


1 1] 


52         THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CI,f FEE. 

contented  country  gentleman  yon  ever  saw  at  Castle  Cliff e. 
How  do  things  go  jn  a^  the  old  place  ?  " 

"  Exceedingly  well.  I  have  the  best  agent  in  the  world, 
But,  Cliffe,  we  heard  you  were  killed." 

"  Likely  enough ;  but  you  may  take  my  word  for  it  when 
I  tell  you  I  was  not.  I  was  very  near  it,  though,  more  than 
once ;  but  that's  all  over  now,  and  I'm  out  of  the  reach  of 
bullets  and  sword-cuts.     Who  is  the  young  lady  behind?" 

"  You  remember  your  uncle,  Edward  Shirley — well,  he  is 
dead,  and  that  is  his  daughter.  Wretchec"  little  creature  !  " 
said  Lady  Agnes,  lowering  her  voice  and  laughing  contemp- 
tuously. "  But  I  took  her  to  keep  her  out  of  the  workhouse  1 
Drive  fast,  Clifi'e ;  I  am  dying  to  get  home  and  hear  every- 
thing." 

The  two  creamy  ponies  flashed  like  an  express-train  through 
Cliftonlea,  and  along  through  a  delightful  wooded  road,  and 
drew  up  before  two  immense  iron  gates,  swinging  under  a 
great  granite  arch,  with  the  anns  of  Cliffe  carved  thereon. 
The  huge  gttes  were  opened  by  a  man  who  came  out  of  an 
Italian  cottage — or,  at  least,  as  near  an  imitation  of  a  cottage 
as  they  can  go  in  Italy  — and  which  was  the  gate-lodge,  and 
the  ponies  dashed  up  a  spacious  avenue,  with  grand  cedars 
of  Lebanon  on  either  hand,  for  upward  of  a  quarter  of  a 
iflile.     Then  they  crossed  a  great  white  bridge,  wide  enough 
to  have  lialf-spanned  the  Mississippi,  and  which   in  reality 
spanned  an  ambitious  little   stream  you   might   have  waded 
through  in  half  a  dozen  steps,  running  sparkling  through. the 
jgreen  turf  like  a  line  of  light,  and  disappearing  among  the 
trees.     Past  this  the  avenue  ran  along  through  a  part  of  the 
grounds  less  densely  wooded,  and  you  saw  that  the  rivulet 
emptied  itself  into  a  M'ide  lake,  lying  like  a  great  pearl  set  in 
emeralds,  and  with  a  miniature  island  in  the  center.     There 
was  a  Swiss  farmhouse  on  the  island,  with  fowls,  and  children, 
and  dogs  scrambling  over  each  other,  a  little  white  skiff  drawn 
up  on  the  bank,  and  a  woman  standing  in  the  rustic  porch, 
with  a  baby  in  her  arms,  and  looking,  under  the  fragrant 
arch  of  honeysuckles,  like  a  picture  in  a  frame.     Then  the 
plantation  grew  denser,  and  the  avenue  lost  itself  in  count- 
less bypaths  and  windings,  and  there  were  glimpses,  as  they 
flew  along  among  the  trees,  of  a  distant  park,  and  deer  sport- 
ing therein.     Once  they  drove  up  a  steep  hillside,  and  on 


KIIvUNG  THE  FATTED  CALF. 


S3 


>.  > 


'» 


the  top  there  was  a  view  of  a  grand  old  house  on  another 
hillside,  with  towers,  and  turrets,  and  m-^ny  gables,  and  no 
end  of  pinnacles,  and  stone  mullioned  windows,  and  queer 
chimneys,  and  a  great  cupola,  with  a  flag  flying  on  the  top ; 
and  further  away  to  the  left,  there  were  the  ruins  of  some 
old  building,  with  a  huge  stone  cross  pointing  up  to  the  blue 
sky,  amid  a  solemn  grove  of  yew  trees  and  golden  willows, 
mingling  light  and  shade  pleasantly  together.  And  there 
were  beau'.iful  rose-gardens  to  the  right,  with  bees  and  but- 
terflies glancing  around  them,  and  fountains  splashing  like 
living  jewels  here  and  there,  and  hotl:  ouses,  and  greenhouses, 
and  summerhouses,  and  beehives. 'and  a  perfect  forest  of 
magnificent  horse-chestnuts.  And  further  away  still,  there 
spread  the  ceasless  sea,  sparkling  as  if  sown  with  stars  ;  and 
still  and  white  beneath  the  roclcs,  there  was  the  fisherman's 
village  of  Lower  Cliffe,  sweltering  under  the  broiling  sea- 
side sun.     Oh,  it  was  a  wonderful  place,  was  Castle  Cliffe  ! 

They  were  down  the  hill  in  a  moment,  and  dashing 
through  a  dark,  cool  beech  wood.  A  slender  gazelle  came 
bounding  along,  and  lifting  its  large,  tearful,  beautiful  eyes, 
and  vanishing  again  in  affright,  and  Colonel  Shirley  uncov- 
ered his  head,  and  reverently  saic  :  ^ 

"It  is  good  to  be  home  1 " 

Two  minutes  later,  they  were  in  a  paved  courtyard.  A 
groom  came  and  led  away  the  horses,  looking  curiously  at 
the  strange  gentleman,  who  smiled,  and  followed  Lady- 
Agnes  up  a  flight  of  granite  steps,  and  into  a  spacious  portico. 
A  massive  hall  door  of  oak  and  iron,  that  had  swung  on  the 
same  honest  hinges  in  the  days  of  the  Tudor  Plantagenets, 
flew  back  to  admit  them,  and  they  were  in  an  immense  hall, 
carved,  and  paneled,  and  pictured,  with  the  Clifl:e  coat-of- 
arms  emblazoned  on  the  ceiUng,  and  a  floor  of  bright,  pol- 
ished oak,  slippery  as  glass.  Up  a  great  sweeping  staircase, 
rich  in  busts  and  bronzes — where  you  might  have  driven  a 
coach  and  four,  and  done  it  easy — into  another  hall,  and  at  last 
into  the  boudoir  of  Lady  Agnes  herself — a  very  modem 
apartment,  indeed,  for  so  old  a  house.  Brussels-carpeted, 
damask-curtained,  with  springy  couches,  and  easy-chairs,  and 
ottomans,  and  little  gems  of  modern  pictures  looking  down 
on  them  from  the  walls. 

"  It  is  good  to  be  borne  1 "  repeated  Colonel  Shirley,  look- 


it 

i 


i 


f  r. 


54 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CI.IFFK. 


ing  round  him  with  a  Httle  satisfied  smile,  as  he  sat  down  in 
an  armchi:ir ;  "  but  this  room  is  new  to  me." 

"  Oh  I  I  left  the  Agnes  Tower  altogether — such  a  dismal 
place,  you  know,  and  full  of  rats  1  and  I  had  the  suite  to 
which  this  belongs  all  fitted  up  last  year.  Are  you  hungry, 
Cliffe  ?  You  must  have  luncheon,  and  then  you  shall  tell 
me  all  the  news." 

With  which  practical  remark,  the  lady  rung,  and  ordered 
her  maid  to  take  off  her  things,  and  send  up  lunch.  And 
when  it  came,  the  traveler  did  ample  justice  to  the  cham- 
pagne and  cold  chicken,  and  answered  his  mamma's  ques- 
tions between  the  mouthfuls. 

"  Oh,  there  is  very  little  to  tell,  after  all  1  You  know  I 
was  thrown  from  my  horse  that  morning,  after  I  left  you  at 
the  hotel  in  London,  and  it  was  three  weeks  before  I  was 
able  to  go  about  again.  And  then  I  got  a  note  from  Vivia" 
(his  sunny  face  darkened  for  a  moment)  "  telling"  me  she 
was  ill — dying  I  She  was  more — v/hen  I  reached  her,  I 
found  her — dead  1 "  ;;  '  :  .    •    t-  - '  r     . 

'  But  Lady  Agnes  was  sitting,  very  cold,  and  pale,  and 
upright,  in  her  seat.  What  was  the  death  of  a  French 
actress  to  her  ? 

"  There  was  a  child — a  midge  of  a  creature,  a  week  old, 
and  I  left  it  with  the  good  people  with  whom  she  lodged, 
and  set  sail  for  India  the  next  morning,  a  desperate  man. 
I  went  on  praying  that  some  friendly  bullet  would  put  an  end 
to  a  miserable  existence ;  but  I  bore  a  charmed  life ;  and 
while  my  comrades  fell  around  me  in  scores,  I  scaled  ram- 
parts, and  stormed  breaches,  and  led  forlorn-hopes,  and 
came  off  without  a  scratch.  I  would  have  made  the  fortune 
of  any  life  assurance  company  in  England!  "he  said,  with 
his  frank  laugh. 

"  And  the  child  ?  "  said  Lady  Agnes,  intensely  interested. 

"  Do  you  really  care  to  know  anything  of  her  ?  " 

"  It  was  a  daughter,  then  ?  Of  course  I  do,  you  absurd 
boy !     If  she  lives,  she  is  the  heiress  of  Castle  Cliffe  !  " 

Colonel  Shirley  took  au  oyster-p^te,  with  a  little  malicious 
smile. 

"  And  the  daughter  of  a  French  actress  I  " 

"  She  is  my  son's  daughter  !  "  said  Lady  Agnes,  haughtily. 
And,  with  a  sligj;htly-flushing  cheek,  said :  "  Pray,  go  on  1 " 


■li' 


KILUNG  THK  FATTED  CALF. 


55 


im 


al 

to 

•y» 

■it; 

ell 

"i 

i 

-J 

4 

"  I  sent  the  people  who  had  her  money,  and  received  in 
return  semi-annual  accounts  o£  her  health  for  the  first  six 
years.  Then  they  sent  me  word  they  were  going  to  leave 
England  and  emigrate  to  America,  and  told  me  to  come  and 
take  the  child,  or  send  word  what  they  would  do  with  her. 
I  wanted  to  see  old  England  again,  anyway,  and  I  had  natural 
feelings,  as  well  as  the  rest  ©f  mankind,  so  I  obtained  leave 
of  absence  and  came  back  to  the  old  land.  Don't  look  so 
incredulous;  it  is  quite  true  1 "  it..  -  -.' 
-.     "  And  you  never  came  to  see  me.     Oh,  Cliff e  !" 

"  No  I  "  said  Cliffe,  with  some  of  her  own  coldness.  "  I 
had  not  quite  forgotten  a  certain  scene  in  a  London  hotel, 
at  that  time,  as  I  have  now.  I  came  to  England,  and  saw 
her  a  slender  angel  in  pinafores  and  pantalets,  and  I  took 
her  with  me,  and  left  her  in  a  French  convent,  and  there  she 
is  safe  and  well  to  this  day."  -- 

Lady  Agnes  started  up  with  clasped  hands  and  radiant 
face. 

"  Oh,  delightful  1  And  a  descendant  of  mine  will  inherit 
Castle  Cliffe,  after  all  1  I  never  could  bear  the  idea  of 
leaving  it  to  Margaret  Shirley.  Cliffe,  you  must  send  for 
the  child,  immediately  I  " 

*'  But  I  don't  think  she  is  a  child  now — she  i"  a  young 
lady  of  twelve  years.  Perhaps  she  has  taken  the  veil  before 
this  I  " 

"  Oh,  nonsense  I  Have  you  seen  her  since  ?  " 
.  "  No ;  the  supdrieure  and  I  have  kept  up  a  yearly  corre- 
spondence on  the  subject,  and  the  young  person  has  favored 
me  herself  with  a  half-dozen  gilt-edged,  cream-laid  little 
French  effusions,  beginning,  '  I  embrace  my  dearest  papa  a 
a  thousand  times,'  and  ending,  *  with  the  most  affectionate 
sentiments,  your  devoted  child '  I  How  does  your  ladyship 
like  the  style  of  that  ?  " 

"Cliffe I  don't  be  absurd  1  You  are  just  the  same  great 
boy  you  were  twelve  years  ago  !     What  is  her  name  ? " 

"  True  1  I  forgot  that  part  of  it !  He  good  foster-mother, 
being  at  a  loss  for  a  name,  took  the  liberty  of  calling  her 
after  her  most  gracious  majesty  herself,  and  when  I  brought 
her  to  the  convent,  I  told  them  to  add  that  of  her  mother ; 
so  Miss  Shirley  is  Victoria  Genevieve." 

"  What  a  disgrace  1     She  ought  to  have  been  Agnes — all 


56        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTILE  CI^IFFE.  - 

the  Cliffes  are.  But  it  is  too  late  now.  Whom  does  she 
resemble,  us  or "     Her  ladyship  had  the  grace  to  pause. 

"  Not  her  mother !  "  said  Colonel  Shirley,  with  perfect 
composure.  "  She  has  blue  eyes  and  light  hair,  and  is  not 
bad-looking.  I  will  start  for  Paris  to-morrow,  if  you  like,  and 
bring  her  home." 

"  No,  no,  I  cannot  part  with  you,  after  your  twelve  years' 
absence,  in  that  fashion  !  I  will  send  Mrs.  Wilder,  the 
housekeeper,  and  Roberts,  the  butler — you  remember 
Roberts,  Cliff e — and  they  will  do,  excellently.  I  shall  not 
lose  a  moment,  I  am  fairly  dying  to  see  her,  so  you  must 
write  a  letter  to  the  superieure  (oh,  the  idea  of  placing  my 
granddaughter  in  a  convent ! )  and  Roberts  and  Mrs.  Wilder 
can  start  in  the  afternoon  train." 

JLady  Agnes  could  be  energetic  when  she  chose,  and  ink 
and  paper  were  there  in  a  moment.  Cliffe  laughed  at  his 
mother's  impetuosity,  but  he  wrote  the  letter,  and  that  very 
afternoon,  sure  enough,  the  dignified  housekeeper  and  the 
old  family  butler  were  steaming  away  on  their  journey  to 
Paris. 

There  had  not  been  such  a  sensation  in  Cliftonlea  for 
years,  as  there  was  when  it  became  known  that  the  lost  heir 
had  returned.  Everybody  remembered  the  handsome, 
laughing,  fair-haired  boy,  who  used  to  dance  with  the  village 
girls  on  the  green,  and  pat  the  children  in  the  town  streets 
on  the  head,  and  throw  them  pennies,  and  about  whom  there 
were  so  many  romantic  stories  afloat.  Everybody  called, 
and  the  young  colonel  rode  everywhere  to  see  his  friends, 
and  be  shaken  by  the  hand ;  and  Lady  Agnes  drove  with 
him  through  Cliftonlea,  with  a  flush  on  her  cheek,  and  a 
light  in  her  eye,  which  had  not  been  seen  there  for  many  a 
day.  And  at  the  end  of  the  first  week  there  was  a  select 
dinner-party  in  his  honor,  in  his  own  ancestral  hall — a  very 
select  dinner-party,  indeed,  where  no  one  was  present 
but  his  own  relatives  (all  Cliffes  and  Shirleys)  and  a  few 
very  old  personal  friends.  There  was  Sir  Roland,  of  course, 
who  had  married  and  buried  the  dark-eyed  cousin  Charlotte, 
whom  Lady  Agnes  had  once  wanted  her  son  to  wed,  and 
who  was  now  stepfather  to  the  little  boy  of  the  golden  curls 
we  saw  at  the  theater.  The  Bishop  of  Cliftonlea,  also  a  rel- 
ative, was  there  ;  and  Captain  Douglas  was  there  ;  and  Mar- 


\ 


KILLING  THE  FATTED  CALF. 


sr 


garet  and  Tom  Shirley,  and  Lord  Lisle,  and  some  half-dozen 
others — all  relatives  and  connections,  of  course.  It  was  a 
perfect  cAe/  d^auvre  of  a  dinner-party ;  and  Colonel  Shirley, 
as  the  lion,  roared  amazingly,  and  told  them  wonderful  stories 
of  hunting  jackals  and  tigers,  and  riding  elephants  and  camels, 
and  shooting  natives.  And  Lady  Agnes,  in  black  velvet  and 
rubies,  looked  like  a  queen,  And  the  blue  drawing-room, 
after  dinner,  was  gorgeous  with  illumination,  and  arabesque, 
and  gilding,  and  jewels,  and  perfumes,  and  music,  and  brilliant 
conversation.  And  Lady  Agnes  was  just  telling  everybody 
about  her  granddaughter  in  the  Parisian  convent,  expected 
home  now  every  day,  when  there  was  a  great  bustle  in  the 
lower  hall,  and  Tom  Shirley,  who  had  been  out  to  see,  came 
rushing  in,  in  a  wild  state  of  excitement,  to  say  that  Wilder 
and  Roberts  had  returned,  and  with  them  a  French  bonne^ 
and  the  expected  young  lady  herself. 

It  was  indeed  true !     The  rightful  heiress  of  Castle  Cliffe 
stood  within  the  halls  of  her  fathers  at  last. 


/• 


V- 


..I  if- . 

■-  •  -J 


58         THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CI.IFFE. 


J     ■-  ;  ■A.,'-i 


CHAPTER  VH. 


MADEMOISELLE. 


■w 


A  MOMENT  before,  the  drawing-room  had  been  h'vely 
enough  with  music,  and  laughter,  and  conversation,  and 
everybody  felt  a  strong  impulse  to  run  out  to  the  hall,  and 
behold  the  daughter  of  Cliffe  Shirley  and  the  French  actress. 
But  it  would  not  have  been  etiquette,  and  nobody  did  it 
except  Tom  Shirley,  who  never  minded  etiquette  or  any- 
thing else,  and  the  colonel,  who  might  well  be  pardoned  for 
any  breach  in  such  a  case,  and  Lady  Agnes,  who  rose  in  the 
middle  of  an  animated  speech,  made  a  hasty  apology,  and  ' 
sailed  out  after  her  son  and  nephew.  They  were  standing 
at  the  head  of  the  grand,  sweeping  staircase,  looking  down 
into  the  lower  hall,  with  its  domed  roof  and  huge  chandelier. 
A  crowd  of  servants,  all  anxious  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  their 
future  mistress,  were  assembled  there  ;  and  right  under  the 
blaze  of  the  pendant  gas-burners,  stood  the  travelers  :  Mrs. 
Wilder,  Mr.  Roberts,  a  coquettishly  dressed  lady's  lady, 
evidently  Miss  Shirley's  bonne,  and,  lastly,  a  small  person  in 
a  gray  cloak  and  little  straw  hat,  undoubtedly  Miss  Shirley 
herself.  As  Lady  Agnes  reached  the  landing  the  travelers 
moved  toward  the  staircase,  and  Mrs.  Wilder,  seeing  her 
ladyship's  inquiring  face,  smilingly  answered  it. 

"  Yes,  my  lady,  we  have  brought  her  all  safe  ;  and  here 
she  is." 

The  little  girl  followed  Mrs.  Wilder  quite  slowly  and  dec- 
orously up  the  stairs,  either  too  much  fatigued  or  with 
too  strong  a  sense  of  the  proprieties  to  run.  It  w^s  a  little 
thing,  but  it  predisposed  Lady  Agnes — who  had  a  horror  of 
romps — in  her  favor,  and  they  all  stepped  back  as  she  came 
near.  A  pair  of  bright  eyes  under  the  straw  hat  glanced 
quickly  from  face  to  face,  rested  on  the  handsome  colonel, 
and  with  a  glad,  childish  cry  of  'Ah,  mon  ph-e!''  the  little 
girl  flung  herself  into  his  arms.     It  was  quite  a  scene. 


J 


MADEMOISKI^IyK. 


S9 


•v'ii 


"  My  dear  little  daughter  1  Welcome  *:o  your  home  I " 
said  the  colonel,  stooping  to  kiss  her,  with  a  happy  glow  on 
his  own  face.  ''  I  see  you  have  not  have  not  forgotten  me 
in  our  six  years'  separation  1  " 

"iV<7»,  mon  p>.re!^'' 

The  colonel  pressed  her  again,  and  turned  with  her  to 
Lady  Agnes. 

"  Genevieve,  say  *  how  do  you  do  ? '  to  this  lady — it  is 
your  grandmother  1  " 

"  I  hope  madame  is  very  well  1 "  said  Mademoiselle 
Genevieve,  with  sober  simplicity,  holding  up  one  cheek,  and 
then  the  other,  to  be  saluted  in  very  French  fashion. 

"  What  a  little  parrot  it  is ! "  cried  Lady  Agnes,  with  a 
slight  and  somewhat  sarcastic  laugh,  peculiar  to  her.  "  Can 
you  not  speak  English,  my  child  ?  " 

"  Yes,  madam,"  replied  the  little  girl,  in  that  language, 
speaking  clear  and  distinct,  but  with  a  strong  accent. 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  and  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  too  I 
Are  you  tired,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  No,  madam  ;  only  very  little." 

"  Then  we  will  take  this  cloak  and  hat  off,  and  you  will 
stay  with  us  fifteen  minutes  before  you  retire  to  your  room. 
Come  1 " 

The  great  lady  took  the  small  girl's  hand  and  led  her, 
with  a  smile  on  her  lips,  into  the  drawing-room.  It  was 
more  a  stroke  of  policy  than  of  curiosity  or  affection  that 
prompted  the  action ;  for  one  glance  had  satisfied  Lady 
Agnes  that  the  child  was  presentable  au  fiaturel,  and  she 
was  anxious  to  display  her  to  her  friends  before  they  could 
maliciously  say  she  had  been  tutoring  her.  And  the  next 
moment  Mademoiselle,  fresh  from  the  sober  twilight  of  her 
convent,  found  herself  in  the  full  blaze  of  a  drawing-room, 
that  seemed  filled  with  people  and  all  staring  at  her.  Half- 
rocoiling  on  the  threshold,  timid  and  shy,  but  not  vulgarly 
so,  she  was  drawn  steadily  on  by  the  lady's  strong,  small 
hand,  and  heard  the  clear  voice  saying :  "  It  is  my  grand- 
daughter— let  me  take  off  your  wrappings,  my  dear."  And 
then,  with  her  own  fair  fingers,  the  shrouding  hat  and  cloak 
were  removed,  and  the  little  heiress  stood  in  the  full  glow 
of  the  lights,  revealed. 

Everybody  paused  an  instant  to  look  at  her  father  and 


6o        THE  HEIRKSS  OF  CASTI.E  CLIFFE. 


grandmother,  who  had  not  yet  a  view  of  her,  among  the  rest. 
A  slender  angel,  quite  small  for  her  ago,  with  the  tiniest 
hands  and  feet  in  the  world — but  then  all  the  Cliffes  had 
been  noted  for  that  trai^ — a  small,  pale  face,  very  pale 
just  now,  probably  from  fatigue,  delicate,  regular  features, 
and  an  exuberance  of  light  hair,  of  the  same  flaxen  lightness 
as  Lady  Agnes'  ov/n,  combed  behind  her  ears,  and  confined 
in  a  thick  black  chenille  net.  Her  dress  was  high-necked 
and  long  sleeved,  soft  and  <rray  in  3hr.ae,  rlick  and  rich  in 
texture,  and  slightly  trimmed  with  peach-colored  ribbons. 
The  eyes  were  downcast,  the  little  head  di  coping  in  par- 
donable embarrassment ;  and  with  the  small,  pale  face,  the 
almost  colorless  hair,  and  dingy  gray  dress,  she  did  not 
look  ve.y  dazzling,  certainly.  But  Lady  Agnes  had  the  eye 
of  an  eagle,  and  she  saw  that  under  different  auspices, 
and  in  different  costume.  Miss  Shirley  was  not  wholly 
an  unpromising  case.  She  was  not  awkward  ;  she  might 
son)e  day  yet  be  even  pretty. 

All  the  ladies  came  foward  to  kiss  her ;  and  Miss  Lisle, 
who  saw  in  her  already  the  future  bride  of  Lord  Henry, 
went  into  perfect  raptures  over  her.  Some  of  the  gentlemen 
kissed  her,  too ;  foremost  among  whom  was  Master  Tom 
Shirley,  who  was  mentally  contrasting  her,  to  her  great  disad- 
vantage, with  the  silver-gilt  Infant  Venus,  on  whom  he  i  ad  lav- 
ished his  youthful  affections.  And  yet,  in  the  midst  of  all 
this  caressing,  there  stood  one  Mordecai  at  the  king's  gate, 
who  did  not  seem  inclined  to  fall  down  ?nd  adore  the 
rising  star.  It  was  Margaret  Shirley,  who,  in  amber  gauze 
and  fluttering  ribbons,  an*"!  creamy  flowers,  looked  dark,  and 
pale,  and  unlovely  as  ever;  and  who  hung  haci,  either  from 
timidity  or  some  worse  feeling,  until  the  sharp  blue  eyes  of 
her  aunt  fell  upon  her. 

"  Margaret,  come  here,  and  embrace  your  cousin ! " 
called  that  lady  in  authoritative  displeasure ;  for  Miss  Mar- 
garet was  no  favorite  at  the  best  of  times.  *'  My  dear  child, 
this  is  yonr  cousi.i,  Margaret  Shirley." 

Mademoiselle,  a  good  deal  recovered  from  her  embarrass- 
ment, raised  her  eyes — very  large,  very  bright,  very  blue — 
and  fixed  them,  with  a  look  that  had  something  of  Lady  Ag- 
nes' own  piercing  intenseness,  on  the  sallow  and  uiiheaUhy 
face  of  cousin  Margaret.     A  cold  look  came  o\er  it,  a.s  if 


MADEMOISEI.I.H. 


6t 


iSt. 

[est 
lad 
[ale 

res, 
less 
led 
ced 
in 
^ns. 


with  that  glance  she  had  conceived  a  sudden  antipathy  to 
her  new  relative,  and  the  cheek  she  turned  to  be  saluted 
was  offered  with  marked  reserve.  Margaret  murmured  low 
some  words  of  welcome  to  which  an  unsmiling  face  and  a 
very  slight  bend  of  the  head  was  returned ;  and  then  she 
shrunk  back  to  her  grandmother,  and  the  blue  eyes  went 
wandering  wistfully  round  the  room.  They  rested  on  those 
for  whom  she  was  seeking — her  father's.  He  held  out  his 
hand  with  a  smile,  and  in  a  twinkling  the  grave  little  face  was 
radiant  and  transformed,  and  she  was  over  and  clinging  to 
his  arm,  and  looking  up  in  his  face  with  dancing  eyes.  It 
was  quite  evident  that  while  all  the  rest  there  were  mere 
shadows  to  her,  seen  and  thought  of  now  for  the  first  time, 
mon  p}:re  was  a  vivid  image  in  reality,  beloved  and  dreamed 
qi  for  years. 

"  Were  you  sorry  to  leave  your  convent,  Genevieve  ?  "  he 
asked,  sitting  down  in  an  armchair,  and  lifting  her  on  his 
knee. 

"  Oh,  no,  papa !  "  she  answered,  readily,  speaking  in 
English,  as  he  had  done. 

"  And  why  ?  Your  friends  are  all  there ;  and  here,  every- 
body is  strange."     '  . 

"  Not  everybody,  papa — you  are  here  1  " 

"  And  she  only  saw  me  once  in  her  life,  and  that's  six 
years  ago,"  laughed  the  colonel,  looking  down  at  the  little 
face  nestling  against  his  shoulder. 

**  But  I  dreamed  of  you  every  day  and  every  night,  papa ; 
and  then  your  letters.  Oh,  those  beautiful  letters  !  I  have 
them  every  one,  and  have  read  thefti  over  a  thousand  times ! " 

"  My  good  little  girl !  and  she  loves  papa,  then  ?  " 

"  Better  than  everything  else  in  the  world,  papa  !  " 

•*  Thank  you,  mademoiselle  1  "  still  laughing  ;  "  and  grand- 
mamma—  you  mean  to  love  her,  too,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Mais  certainement !  "  said  mademoiselle,  with  gravity. 

"  And  your  uncle  and  your  cousins  ?  There  is  one  now 
— how  do  you  think  you  will  like  him  ?  " 

Trm  Shiiley  was  standing  near,  with  his  hands,  boy-fash- 
ion, in  his  pockets,  listening  with  an  air  of  preternatural 
solemnity  to  the  conversation,  and  the  colonel  turned  his 
laughing  face  toward  him.  Miss  Genevieve  glanced  up  and 
over  Tom  with  calm  and  serious  dignity. 


62 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CUFFE. 


"  I  don't  know,  papa — I  don't  like  boys  at  all  -that  is, 
except  Claude  I "  .        •     . 

"  Who  is  Claude,  petite  /  " 

"  Oh,  you  know,  don't  you  ?  His  father  is  Le  Marquis 
de  St.  Hilary  ;  and  I  spent  the  last  vacation  at  the  chateau, 
away  out  in  the  country." 

"Grand  connections  1     Who  sent  my  little  girl  there?  " 

"  I  went  with  Ignacia — that's  his  sister  ;  and  we  are  in 
the  same  division  at  school.  Papa,"  in  a  whisper,  *'  is  that 
girl  over  there,  in  the  yellow  dress,  his  sister?  " 

"No,  petite — why?" 

"  For  they  have  black  eyes  and  black  hair  alike,  only  his 
is  curly,  and  he  is  a  great  deal  handsomer.  Grandmamma 
said  she  was  my  cousin — is  she  ? "  ' 

"Yes;  and  his."  ■"  ^      ■   ~ 

"  Does  she  live  here  ?  " 

"  Yes,  they  both  live  here.  Well,  what  now — don't  you 
like  them  ?  " 

"  I  don't  like  her  at  all  I     Oh,  how  ugly  she  is  !  " 

The  colonel  laughed  and  laid  his  hand  over  her  lips. 

'*  My  dear  Genevieve,  what  are  you  saying  ?  it  will  never 
do  for  you  to  talk  in  that  fashion  1  Maggie  is  the  best  little 
girl  in  the  world,  and  she  will  be  a  nice  companion  for  you 
to  play  with." 

"I  shan't  play  with  herl  I  shan't  like  her  at  all  1  "  said 
Genevieve,  with    decision.     "  What  makes  her  live  here  ?  '* 

"  Because  she  is  an  orphan,  and  has  no  other  home,  and 
I  know  you  will  be  kind  to  her,  Vivia.  Who  taught  you  to 
speak  English  as  well  as  you  do  ?  " 

"  Oh,  we  had  an  English  teacher  in  the  convent,  and  a 
great  many  of  the  girls  were  English,  and  we  used  to  speak 
it  a  great  deal.  Did  I  tell  you  in  my  last  letter  how  many 
prizes  I  got  at  the  distribution?  "  '  *  • 

"  I  forget — tell  me  again  ?  "  ..  *  ' 

"  I  got  the  first  prize  in  our  division  for  singing  and 
English;  the  second  for  music  and  drawing,  mathematics 
and  astronomy." 

"  Whew  I "  whistled  Tom,  still  an  attentive  listener. 
*'  This  little  midge  taking  the  prize  in  mathematics  1  What 
an  idea  that  is  1 " 

"  Can  you  sing  and  play,  then  ?  "  "" 


-■s. 


MADEMOISELI.E. 


63 


"  Yes,  papa,  certainly  !  " 

"  Then,  suppose  you  favor  us  with  a  songl  I  should  like 
to  hear  you  sing,  of  all  things  1  "  said  the  colonel,  still  in  his 
half-laughing  way. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Cliffe,  the  child  must  be  too  tired  1 "  said 
Lady  Agnes,  sailing  up  at  the  moment,  and  not  caring  half 
so  much  for  the  child's  fatigue  as  the  idea  that  she  might 
make  a  show  of  herself. 

"  I  am  not  fatigued ;  but  I  don't  like  to  sing  before  so 
many  ladies  and  gentlemen,  papa,"  whispered  Miss  Gene- 
vieve, blushing  a  little. 

'»  Oh,  nonsense  I  "  I  am  certain  they  will  be  delighted. 
Come  along." 

Miss  Lisle  having  just  favored  the  company  with  a  Swiss 
composition,  that  had  a  gi'^.at  many  **  tra-la-las  "  at  the  end 
of  each  verse,  closed  with  a  shrill  shriek  and  a  terrific  bang 
of  all  the  keys  at  once,  and  arose  from  the  instrument. 
Colonel  Shirley,  holding  his  little  daughter's  hand,  led  her 
reluctant  and  blushing,  to  the  seat  the  young  lady  had 
vacated,  amid  a  profound  silence  of  curious  expectation. 

"  What  shall  I  sing,  papa  ?  "  inquired  mademoiselle.  Tun- 
ing her  fingers  lightly  over  the  keys,  and  recovering  her  self- 
possession  when  she  found  herself  hopelessly  in  for  it. 

"  Oh  1  whatever  you  please.  We  are  willing  to  be  en- 
chanted with  anything." 

Thus  encouraged,  mademoiselle  played  a  somewhat  dif- 
ficult prelude  from  memoiy,  and  then  in  a  clear,  sweet  so- 
prano, broke  out  into  "  Casta  Diva."  Her  voice  was  rich 
and  clear,  and  full  of  pathos ;  her  touch  highly  cultivated ; 
her  expression  perfect.  Evidently  her  musical  talent  was 
wonderful,  or  she  had  the  best  of  teachers,  and  an  excellent 
power  of  imitation.  Everybody  was  astonished — no  one 
more  so  than  papa,  who  had  expected  some  simple  French 
chansonette,  and  Lady  Agnes  was  equally  amazed  and 
delighted.  The  room  rung  with  plaudits  when  she  ceased ; 
and,  coloring  visibly,  Mademoiselle  Genevieve  rose  quickly, 
and  sought  shrinking  she'ter  under  papa's  wings. 

"  It  is  a  most  wonderful  child  I  "  said  Miss  Lisle,  holding 
up  her  hands.     "  No  professional  could  have  sung  it  better." 

"  She  sings  well,"  said  Lady  Agnes,  smiling  graciously  on 
the  small  performer,  and  patting  the  now  hot  cheek  with  her 


64         THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTILE  CUFFE 

gold  and  ivory  fan.  "  But  she  is  tired  now,  and  must  go 
to  rest.     Tom,  ring  for  Mrs.  Wilder." 

Tom  rung,  and  Mrs.  Wilder  came. 

"  Bid  your  friends  good-night,  my  dear,"  said  Lady  Agnes, 

Mademoiselle  did  so,  courtesying  with  the  prettiest  child- 
like grace  imaginable. 

"  You  will  take  her  to  the  rose  room,  Mrs.  Wilder,  next 
my  boudoir.     Good  night,  my  love.     Pleasant  dreams  1  " 

And  Lady  Agnes  finished  by  kissing  her,  and  turning  her 
and  the  housekeeper  out  of  the  drawing-room. 

"  Where  is  Jeannette,  madam  ? "  inquired  Miss  Shirley, 
as  she  tripped  along  up  another  grand  staircase,  and  through 
halls  and  corridors,  beside  the  housekeeper. 

"  In  your  room.  Miss  Vivia,  waiting  for  you." 

"  Is  she  to  sleep  near  me  ?     I  must  have  Jeannette  near 


me 


» 


'*  She  is  to  sleep  in  a  little  closet  off  your  room.     Here  it, 
is.     Good  night.  Miss  Vivia." 

But  Miss  Vivia  did  not  speak.     She  had  stopped  in  the 
doorway  in  an  ecstasy  of  admiration  and  delight.     And  no 
wonder.     In  all  her  childish  dreams   of  beauty,  in  all  she 
had  seen  at  the  Chiteau  and  Hotel  de  St.  Hilary,  there  had 
never  been  anything  half  so  beautiful  as  this.     The  apart- 
ment had  once  been  Lady  Agnes's  study,  where  she  received 
her  steward  and  transacted  all  her  business  ;   but  during  the 
last  week  it  had  been  newly-furnishe<d   and  fitted  up  for  the 
youthful   heiress.     Her   own    rooms — bath-room,   dressing- 
room,  bedroom  and  boudoir — were  all  en  suite,  and  this  was 
the  last  of  them.     The  feet  sunk  in  the  carpet  of  pale  rose- 
colored  velvet,  sown   all  over  with  white  buds  and   deep- 
green  leaves ;  the  walls  were  paneled  in  pink  satin  bordered 
with  silver ;  and  the  great  Maltese   window  was  draped  in 
rose   velvet,  cut  in  antique  points.     The  lofty    ceiling  was 
fretted  in  rose  and  silver;  and  the  chairs  of  some  white 
wood,  polished  till  they  shone  like  ivory,  were  cushioned  in 
the  same  glowing  tints;  so  were  the  couches,  and  a  great 
carved  and  gilded  fauteuil,  and  the  flashing   chandelier  of 
frosted  silver,  with  burners  shaped  like  lilies,  had  deep  red 
shades,  filling  the  room  with  rosy  radiance.     The  bed  in  a 
distant  alcove,  screened  with  filmy-white  lace  curtains,  was 
carved  and  gilded  in  the  same  snow-white  wood ;  and  over 


MADEMOISEI.LE. 


65 


.1 


the  head,  standing  on  a  Grecian  bracket,  was  a  beautiful 
statue  of  the  "  Guardian  Angel,"  with  folded  wings,  droop 
ing  head,  outstretched  arms,  and  smiling  face.  The  inlaid 
tables  were  exquisite ;  a  Bible  lay  on  one  of  them,  bound  in 
gold  and  rose-velvet,  with  the  name  "  Victoria  Genevieve  " 
in  gold  letters  on  the  cover ;  a  gilded  bird-cage  with  two  or 
three  brilliant  tropical  birds  therein,  was  pendant  near  the 
window ;  and  over  the  carved  mantle  of  Egyptian  marble 
hung  the  exquisite  picture  of  "  Christ  Blessing  Little 
Children."  The  whole  thing  had  been  the  design  of  Lady 
Agnes.  Every  article  it  contained  had  been  critically  in- 
spected before  being  placed  there,  and  the  effect  was  per- 
fect. In  it  Moore  might  have  written  "  Lalla  Rookh ;  "  and 
not  even  FadUuieen  could  have  found  anything  to  grumble 
at ;  and  little  Genevieve  clapped  her  hands  in  an  ecstasy  of 
speech  and  delight. 

"It  is  perfect,  mademoiselle  I  "  exclaimed  Jeannette,  the 
bonm  who  had  attended  the  little  girl  from  Paris.  "  Look 
at  this  lovely  dressing-case  I  and  here  is  the  wardrobe  with 
such  great  mirror-doors  ;  and  in  this  Psyche  glass  I  can 
see  myself  from  top  to  toe ;  and  here  is  a  door  at  the  foot 
of  your  bed  opening  into  your  grandmamma's  boudoir,  and 
this  cedar  closet — does  it  not  smell  deliciously  ? — is  where  I 
am  to  sleep." 

"  Oh,  it  is  beautiful !  There  is  nothing  at  all  in  Hotel  de 
St.  Hilary  like  it  I     It  is  like  heaven  I  " 

"  Yes,  mademoiselle ;  and  your  grandmamma  is  a  very 
great  lady ;  and  they  say  down-stairs,  there  is  not  a  finer 
house  in  all  England  than  this ;  and  that  you  will  be  the 
richest  heiress  that  ever  was  heard  of  !  " 

"  That  is  charming  I  I  will  sit  in  this  great,  beautiful 
chair,  and  you  may  take  my  dress  off,  and  brush  out  my 
hair.     Did  you  see  my  papa,  Jeannette  ? " 

"  Yes,,  mademoiselle.     He  looks  like  a  king  1 " 

"  And  I  love  him !  Oh,  I  love  him  better  than  all  the 
whole  world  1  and  ma  grandem^re — you  saw  her ;  too,  Jean- 
nette ?  She  makes  one  afraid  of  her  in  her  splendid  dress 
and  rubies  — far  finer  than  anything  that  Madame  la  Mar- 
quise de  St.  Hilary  ever  wore ;  but  she  is  very  grand  and 
handsome,  and  I  admire  her  ever  so  much!  And  my 
cousins — ^you  did  not  see  them — did  you,  Jeannette  ?  " 


66        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI<E  CI.IFFE. 


h 


! 


"  No,  mademoiselle.     Do  you  like  them?  "      ■ 

**  I  don't  like  one  of  them  at  all.  Mademoiselle  Mar- 
guerite— oh,  she  is  so  ugly,  and  has  such  a  yellow  skin  1 
Just  as  yellow  as  poor  old  Sister  Lucia,  in  the  convent  1 
There  Jeannette,  you  can  go.  I  shall  say  my  prayers  and 
go  to  bed  1     Oh,  what  a  lovely  room  this  is  I  " 

The  flaxen  hair  was  gathered  in  a  little  cambric  night- 
cap; th.  gray  dress  exchanged  for  a  long  sac  de  fiuit ;  ?nd 
everything  being  done,  Jeannette  vanished,  and  mademoiselle 
said  ix  prayers  with  sleepy  devotion,  and  climbed  in,  and 
sunk  from  sight  in  pillows  of  down;  and,  thinking  how 
splendid  everything  was,  fell  asleep. 

Lady  Agnes  Shirley,  waking  at  some  gray  and  dismal 
hour  of  the  e^rly  morning,  felt  a  strong  impulse  of  curiosity 
prompting  her  to  rise  up  and  take  a  look  at  her  little  grand- 
daughter asleep.  So  arising,  she  donned  ^Uppers  and  dress- 
ing-gov/n,  entered  the  boudoir,  softly  opened  the  door  of 
communication  between  it  and  her  little  girl's  room,  and 
looked  in.  And  there  a  surprise  awaited  her  1  instead  of 
finding  mademoiselle  fast  asleep  amon^  the  pillows,  some- 
thing half-dressed,  a  fairy  in  a  white  underskirt  and  loose 
sank,  stood  with  her  back  toward  her,  trying — yes,  actually 
trying  to  make  the  bed  1  But  the  anibitious  effort  was 
unavailing,  the  small  arn^.s  could  by  no  means  reach  half- 
way across,  and  the  little  hands  could  by  no  effort  shake  up 
the  mighty  sea  of  dov.  n ;  and,  with  a  long-drawn  sigh,  the 
heiress  of  the  Shirleys  gave  up  the  attempt  at  last.  Then 
she  went  to  the  basin,  washed  her  face  and  hands,  brushed 
out  the  profusion  of  her  pale  hair,  and  then  coming  back, 
knelt  down  under  the  "  Guardian  Angel,"  crossed  herself 
devoutly,  and  with  clasped  hands  and  upraised  eye  began 
to  pray.  The  child  looked  almost  lovely  at  that  moment,  in 
her  loose  drapery,  her  unbound,  falling  hair,  her  clear,  pale 
face,  clasped  hands,  and  uplifted  earnest  eyes.  But  Lady 
Agnes  was  a  great  deal  loo  stupefied  at  the  whole  extraor- 
dinary scene  to  think  of  admiration,  or  even  think  at  all, 
and  could  do  nothing  but  stand  there  and  look  on.  A 
quarter  of  an  hour  passed,  the  little  girl  did  not  stir ;  half 
an  hour  parsed,  the  little  saint  prayed  still ;  when  the  door 
of  the  cedar  closet  opened,  and  out  came  Jeannette.  Gene- 
vieve finished  her  devotions'and  arose. 


MADEMOISELLE. 


67 


"  Now,  mademoiselle,  what  have  you  been  about  ?  You 
have  never  been  trying  to  make  that  bed  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  have  though,  but  I  couldn't  do  it  I  It's  so  very 
large  you  see,  Jeannette." 

"  Mademoiselle,  I  am  SMrprised  at  you  I  What  would 
your  grandmamma  say  if  she  knew  it  ? " 

Mademoiselle  opened  her  bright  blue  eyes  in  undisguised 
surprise. 

"  Knew  what  ?     What  have  I  done  ?" 

**  You  are  not  to  make  beds,  mademoiselle  !  "  said  Jean- 
nette, laughing.  "  I  am  sure  your  grandmamma  does  not 
expe"';  you  to  do  anything  of  the  sort." 

"  But  I  have  always  done  it.  We  all  made  our  own  beds 
in  the  convent,  except  the  very  little  ones." 

"  Well,  this  is  not  a  convent,  but  a  castle ;  and  you  know, 
Mademoiselle  Vivia,  there  is  a  proverb  that  we  mast  da  in 
Rome  as  the  Romans  do.  So  you  need  not  do  it  any  more, 
or  they'll  think  you  have  been  a  housemaid  in  France  ;  and 
another  thing,  what  in  the  world  do  you  get  up  so  early  for  ? " 

"  Early  1  Why  the  sun  is  rising,  Lnd  we  always  got  up 
before  the  sun,  in  the  convent !  " 

"  The  convent  1  the  convent  I  Please  to  remember  you 
are  not  in  a  convent  now,  mademoiselle,  and  sunrise  is  a 
very  early  hour.  There  is  not  one  up  in  the  house,  I  be- 
lieve, but  ourselves." 

"  I  don't  care  for  that,  I  shall  get  up  as  early  as  I  please, 
unless  papa  or  grandmamma  prevent  it,  and  I  don't  think 
they  will.     So  here,  curl  my  hair  and  say  no  more  about  it." 

Jeannette  twined  the  flaxen  tresses  over  her  fingers  and 
let  them  fall  in  a  shining  shower  to  the  child's  waist.  Then 
a  dress  of  fresh  white  muslin  was  brought  out  and  put  on, 
a  sash  of  broad  blue  ribbon  knotted  round  the  little  waist ; 
and  l.ady  Agnes,  from  her  watching  place,  allowed,  what 
she  could  not  last  night,  that  her  granddaughter  was  pretty. 

"  NoAV,"  said  mademoiselle,  tying  her  straw  hat  over  her 
pretty  curls,  "  I  saw  some  lo  v  ';/  rose-gardens  out  of  the 
window,  and  you  must  come  with  me  to  see  them.  Do  you 
think  you  can  find  your  way  to  the  door :  it  is  such  a  great 
house  this  I  " 

"  I  will  see.     Come  along  1 " 

The  two  went  out  of  the  rose  room ;  and  Lady  Agnes, 


68        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTl^E  CWFFK. 


ii 


having  got  the  better  of  her  amazement,  laughed  her  low  and 
sarcastic  laugh,  and  went  back  to  her  own  bedchamber. 

"  It  is  a  prodigy — this  small  granddaughter  of  mine,  and 
so  French  1  I  am  afraid  she  takes  after  that  dreadful  French 
actress,  though :  /?/<??/  merd  /.  she  does  not  look  like  her. 
Well,  if  they  have  taught  her  nothing  worse  than  getting  up 
at  sunrise  in  her  French  convent,  they  have  done  no  harm 
after  all ;  but  what  an  extraordinary  child  it  is,  to  be  sure  I 
She  took  to  that  exhibition  of  herself  quite  naturally  last 
evening — the  French  actress  again.  And  that  odious  name 
of  Genevieve !  I  wish  I  could  have  her  christened  pver 
again  and  called  Agnes ;  but  I  suppose  Victoria  will  do  for 
want  of  a  better."  -        "^.^     '  r" 

The  young  lady  thus  apostrophized  was  meantime  having 
a  very  good  time,  out  among  the  rose-gardens  and  laurel 
walks.  Jeanflette  had  found  her  way  through  some  side- 
door  or  other.  And  now  the  little  white  fairy,  with  the 
blue  ribbons,  and  fluttering  flaxen  curls,  was  darting  hither 
and  thither  among  the  parterres  like  some  pretty  white  bird. 
Now  she  was  watching  the  swans  sailing  serenely  about  in 
the  mimic  lakes  ;  now  she  was  looking  at  the  goldflsh  glanc- 
ing in  the  fountains ;  now  she  was  lost  in  admiration  of  a 
great  peacock,  strutting  up  and  down  on  one  of  the  terraces 
with  the  first  rays  of  sunshine  sparkling  on  his  outspread 
tail — a  tail  which  its  owner  evidently  admired  quite  as  much 
as  the  little  girl ;  now  she  was  hunting  squirrels ;  now  she 
was  listening  to  the  twittering  of  the  birds  in  the  beechwood 
and  through  the  shrubbery ;  now  she  was  gathering  roses  and 
carnations  to  make  bouquets  for  papa  and  grandmamma, 
and  anon  she  was  running  up  and  down  the  terraces  with 
dress,  and  ribbons,  and  curls  streaming  in  the  wind,  a  bloom 
on  her  cheek,  and  a  light  in  her  eye,  and  a  blooming,  elastic 
life  in  every  step,  that  would  make  one's  pulses  leap  from 
sympathy  only  to  look  at  her.  The  time  went  by  like 
magic.  Even  the  staid  Jeannette  so  far  forgot  the  pro- 
prieties as  to  be  seduced  into  a  race  up  and  down  the  green 
lanes  between  the  chestnut  trees,  and  coming  flying  back, 
breathless  and  panting,  Genevieve  ran  plump  into  the  arms 
of  the  colonel,  who  stood  on  the  lawn  laughing,  and  smoking 
his  matin  cigar. 

"  You  wild  gipsy  I     Is  this  the  sort  f^i  thing  they  have  been 


n 


MADEMOISEI.I.E. 


69 


id 

nd 
ch 


teaching  you  in  your  sobe-  convent  ?  At  what  unchristian 
hour  did  you  rise  this  morning  ?  and  who  are  those  bouquets 
for?" 

"  One  is  for  you,  papa ;  and  I've  been  out  here  three  hours, 
and  I  am  so — so  hungry  1 "  laughing  merrily  and  pressing 
the  hand  he  held  out  for  the  flowers. 

"  That's  right  I  Slick  to  that  if  you  can,  and  you  will  not 
need  any  rouge — your  cheeks  are  redder  now  than  your 
roses.  There  1  they  are  in  my  button-hole,  and  while  I 
smoke  my  cigar  down  the  avenue,  do  you  go  in  with  your 
bonne  and  get  some  bread  and  milk." 

Vivia  ran  off  after  Jeannette,  and  a  housemaid  brought 
them  the  bread  and  milk  into  the  breajcfast-parlor.  Like  all 
the  rooms  in  the  house,  it  was  handsome,  and  handsomely 
furnished ;  but  Vivia  saw  only  one  thing — a  portrait  over 
the  mantel  of  Master  Cliffe  Shirley  at  the  age  of  fifteen. 
He  wore  the  costume  of  a  young  Highland  chief — a  plumed 
bonnet  on  his  princely  head,  a  plaid  of  Rob  Roy  tartan  over 
his  shoulders,  and  a  bow  and  arrow  in  his  hand.  The  hand- 
some laughing  face,  the  bright,  frank,  cheery  eyes,  the 
beamy  locks,  peculiarly-becoming  dress,  gave  the  picture  a 
fascination  that  riveted  the  gaze  even  of  strangers.  Lady 
Agnes  Shirley,  cold,  hard  woman  of  the  world,  had  wept  a 
heart-broken  tear  over  that  splendid  face  in  the  days  when 
she  thought  him  dead  under  an  Indian  sky ;  and  now  his 
little  daughter  dropped  on  one  knee  before  it,  and  held  up 
her  clasped  hands  with  a  cry  : 

"  Oh,  my  handsome  papa  1  Everything  in  this  place  is 
beautiful,  but  he  is  the  best  of  all  1 " 


■t  : 


'  -1-    <' 


70       THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTILE  CUFFE. 


11   'i 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

CASTLE    CLIFFE. 

Lady  Agnes  was  not  an  early  riser.  Noon  usually  found 
her  breakfasting  in  her  boudoir ;  but  on  this  particular  morn- 
ing she  came  sailing  down-stairs,  to  the  infinite  astonishment 
and  amazement  of  all  beholders,  just  as  the  little  French 
clock  in  the  breakfast-parlor  was  chiming  eight.  Genevieve 
sat  on  an  ottoman  opposite  the  mantel,  with  a  porcelain 
bowl  on  her  lap,  a  silver  spoon  in  her  hand,  gazing  intently 
at  the  portrait,  and  feasting  her  eyes  and  htr  palate  at  the 
same  time.  She  started  up  as  Lady  Agnes  entered  with  a 
smiling  courtesy,  and  came  forward  with  frank  grsce,  hold- 
ing up  her  blooming  cheeks  to  be  saluted. 

"Good  morning, /^//A? /  Fresh  as  a  rosebud,  I  see  !  So 
you  were  up  and  out  of  your  nest  before  the  birds  this  morn- 
ing I     Was  it  because  you  did  not  sleep  well  last  night  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,  madam.  I  slept  very  well ;  but  I  always  rise 
early.     It  is  not  wrong,  is  it  ? " 

"  By  no  means.  I  like  to  see  little  girls  up  with  the  stm. 
Well,  Tom,  good  morning  I  "         j^» 

"  Can  I  believe  my  eyes  ?  "  exclaimed  Tom  Shirley,  en- 
tering, and  starting  back  in  affected  horror  at  the  sight. 
"  Do  I  really  behold  my  aunt  Agnes,  or  is  this  her  ghost  ?  " 

•'  Oh,  nonsense.  Ring  the  bell.  Have  you  seen  the  colo- 
nel ?  Oh  here  he  comes.  Have  you  ordered  the  carriage 
to  be  in  readiness,  Cliffe?  "  ' 

•'  Yes.  What  is  the  bill  of  fare  for  to-day  ?  "  said  the 
colonel,  sauntering  in. 

"  You  know  we  are  to  return  all  those  calls — such  a  bore, 
too  I  and  this  the  first  day  of  our  little  girl's  stay  among  us  I 
What  will  you  do  all  day,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  Oh,  she  will  amuse  herself,  never  fear,"  said  the  colonel. 
*•  I  found  her  racing  like  a  wild  Indian.     Don't  blush,  Vivia  i 


» 


CASTLE  CLIFFE. 


71 


1 

m 

"^'^ 

i.,»y. 

,\'^% 

/<■;!* 

■■"t 

-\ 

yJ^ 

•^iH' 

it's  all  right.  And  she  can  spend  the  day  in  exploring  the 
place  with  her  donne." 

"  Would  you  like  to  see  the  house,  Victoria  ?  "  inquired 
Lady  Agnes,  taking  her  place  at  the  head  of  the  table,  and, 
laying  marked  emphasis  on  the  name. 

"  if  that  does  not  inconvenience  yoM  at  all,  madam." 

"  Let  Margaret  stay  from  school,  then,  and  show  her  the 
place,"  said  the  colonel. 

"  Margaret  ?  Absurd  I  Margaret  couldn't  show  it  any 
more  than  a  cat.  Tom,  can  you  not  get  a  half-holiday  this 
afternoon,  and  show  cousin  Victoria  over  the  house  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  if  that  young  gentlewoman  herself  does  not 
object,"  said  Tom,  buttering  his  roll  with  gravity. 

The  small  gentlewoman  in  question,  standing  in  the  middle 
of  the  floor,  in  her  white  dress,  and  blue  ribbons,  and  flaxen 
curls  falling  to  her  waist,  did  not  object,  though  had  Mar- 
garet been  decided  upon  as  chaperon,  she  probably  would 
have  done  so.  Both  cousins  had  been  met  last  night  for  the 
first  time  ;  but  her  feelings  toward  them  were  quite  different. 
Toward  Tom  they  were  negative ;  she  did  not  dislike  him, 
but  she  did  not  care  for  him  one  way  or  the  other.  Toward 
Margaret  they  were  positive  repulsion,  and  expressed  exactly 
what  she  felt  toward  that  young  person.  Still  she  looked  a 
little  doubtful  as  to  the  propriety  of  being  chaperoned  by  a 
great  boy  six  feet  high  ;  but  grandmamma  suggested  it,  and 
papa  was  smiling  over  at  her,  so  there  could  be  no  impro- 
priety, and  she  courtesied  gravely  in  assent,  and  made  to- 
ward the  door.  Margaret  entered  at  the  same  moment,  ar- 
rayed in  pink  muslin.  She  passed  mademoiselle  with  a  low 
-'*  Good-morning,  cousin  Genevieve  1 "  and  took  her  place  at 
the  table.  ^ 

"  Won't  you  stay  and  take  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  pistolet 
with  us  ? "  called  her  father  after  her,  as  she  stood  in  the 
hall,  balancing  herself  on  one  foot,  and  beating  time  d  la 
militaire  with  the  other. 

"  No,  papa,  thank  you ;  I  never  drink  coffee.  We  always 
had  bread  and  milk  for  breakfast  in  the  convent." 

"  Oh  1  that  everlasting  convent  I  "  exclaimed  Lady  Agnes, 
pettishly.  "  We  will  have  another  martyred  abbess  in  the 
family,  Cliffe,  if  you  ever  send  the  little  nonette  back  to  her 
Paris  school." 


i 


i 


72       THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CUFFK. 

Immediately  after  breakfast,  Tom  donned  his  college- 
scliool  trencher,  slung  his  satchel  over  his  shoulder,  and  set 
out  with  Margaret  to  Cliftonlea,  telling  that  young  lady,  as 
he  went,  he  expected  it  would  be  jolly  showing  the  little  orig- 
inal over  the  house.  And  as  her  toilet  was  made,  Lady 
Agnes  and  her  son  rolled  away  in  the  great  family  carriage, 
emblazoned  with  the  Cliffe  coat  of  arms ;  and  Genevieve 
was  left  to  her  own  devices. 

In  all  her  life  she  could  not  remember  a  morning  that 
went  so  swiftly  as  that,  flying  about  in  the  sunshine,  half 
wild  with  the  sense  of  liberty,  and  the  hitherto  unimagined 
delights  of  the  place.  She  found  her  way  to  the  Swiss  farm- 
house, and  was  transported  by  the  little  pigs,  and  calves,  and 
poultry  ;  and  she  and  Jeannette  got  into  the  little  white  boat, 
and  were  rowed  over  the  sparkling  ripples  of  the  lake  by 
one  of  the  farmer's  girls.  She  wandered  away  down  even 
to  the  extreme  length  of  the  grand  avenue,  tiring  Jeannette 
nearly  to  death ;  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  lodge-keeper 
and  his  wife  at  the  Italian  villa,  and  was  even  more  en- 
chanted by  a  little  baby  they  had  there  than  she  had  been 
before  by  the  pigs  and  calves ;  and  when  Tom  returned  for 
his  early  dinner  at  one  o'clock,  he  found  her  swinging  back 
and  forward  through  space,  like  an  animated  pendulum,  in 
a  great  swing  in  the  trees. 

The  young  lady  and  gentleman  had  a  tite-d-tete  dinner 
that  day ;  for  Margaret  was  a  half  boarder  at  the  Cliftonlea 
Female  Academy,  and  always  dined  there ;  and  before  the 
meal  was  over,  they  were  chatting  away  with  the  familiarity 
of  old  friends.  At  first.  Mademoiselle  Vivia  was  inclined  to 
treat  Master  Tom  with  dignified  reserve ;  but  his  animated 
volubility  and  determination  to  be  on  cordial  terms  were  not 
to  be  resisted ;  and  they  rose  from  the  table  the  best  friends 
in  the  world. 

To  visit  Cliftonlea  without  going  to  Castle  Cliffe  was  like 
visiting  Rome  without  going  to  St.  Peter's.  All  sight-seers 
went  there,  and  were  enchanted,  but  few  of  them  ever  had 
so  fluent  and  voluble  a  guide  as  its  heiress  had  now.  From 
gallery  to  gallery,  through  beautiful  saloons  and  supper-rooms, 
through  blooming  conservatories,  magnificent  suites  of  draw- 
ing-rooms, oak  parlors  and  libraries,  Tom  enthusiastically 
strode,  gesticulating,  describing,  and  inventing  sometimes, 


.1    1 


^ 


CASTIvE  CI.IFFE. 


73 


5ge- 

set 

,  as 


\ 


when  his  memory  fell  short  of  facts,  in  a  way  that  equally 
excited  the  surprise  and  admiration  of  his  small  auditor. 
The  central,  or  main  part  of  the  castle,  according  to  Tom, 
was  as  old  as  the  days  of  the  Fifth  Henry — as  indeed  its 
very  ancient  style  of  architecture,  and  an  inscription  in  an- 
tique French  on  an  old  mantelpiece,  proved.  To  the  right 
and  left  there  were  two  octagonal  towers  :  one  called  the 
Queen's  Tower,  built  in  the  time  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  and 
so  named  because  that  illustrious  lady  herself  had  once  hon- 
ored it  with  a  week's  visit — the  other,  called  the  Agnes 
Tower,  had  been  erected  in  the  same  reign  at  a  later  date, 
and  was  named  after  Lady  Agnes  Cliffe,  the  bride  of  its 
then  proprietor. 

"Tom  had  wonderful  stories  to  tell  about  these  old  places ; 
but  the  great  point  of  attraction  was  the  picture-gallery,  an 
immense  hall  lighted  with  beautiful  oriel  windows  of  stained 
glass,  and  along  whose  walls  hung  the  pictured  faces  of  all 
the  Cliffes,  who  had  reigned  there  from  time  immemorial. 
Gallant  knights,  in  wigs,  apd  swords,  and  doublets  ;  courtly 
dames  in  diamond  stomachers,  and  head-dresses  three  feet 
high,  looked  down  with  their  dead  eyes  on  the  last  of  their 
ancient  race — the  little  girl  in  the  white  dress  and  blue  rib- 
bons, who  held  her  breath  with  awe,  and  felt  as  if  she  heard 
the  ghostly  rustling  of  their  garments  against  the  oak  walls. 
Master  Tom,  who  had  no  Cliffe  blood  in  his  veins,  and  no 
bump  of  veneration  on  his  head,  ran  on  with  an  easy  fluency 
that  would  have  made  his  fortune  as  a  stump-lecturer. 

"  That  horrid  old  fright  up  there,  in  the  bag-wig  and  knee- 
breeches,  is  Sir  Marmaduke  Cliffe,  who  built  the  two  towers 
in  the  days  of  Queen  Elizabeth  ;  and  that  sour-looking  dame, 
with  a  ruffle  sticking  out  five  feet,  was  Lady  Agnes  Neville, 
his  wife.  That  there  is  Sir  Lionel,  who  was  master  here  in 
the  days  of  the  MerryMonarch — the  handsomest  Cliffe  among 
them,  and  everybody  says  I'm  his  born  image.  That  good- 
looking  nun  over  there  with  the  crucifix  in  her  hand  and  the 
whites  of  her  eyes  upturned,  was  the  lady  abbess,  once  of 
the  ruined  convent  behind  here,  and  got  her  brains  knocked 
out  by  that  abominable  scamp,  Thomas  Cromwell.  There's 
the  present  Lady  Agnes  in  white  satin  and  pearls — her  bridal 
dress,  1  believe.  And  there — do  you  know  who  that  is  ?  " 
A  young  man,  looking  like  a  prince  in  the   uniform  of  an 


I 


74        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CLIFFE. 

officci  of  dragoons,  v/ith  t<>e  blue  e^es,  golden  hair,  and 
laughing  face,  she  knew  'y  rv;;in  and  a  flush  of  light  rose 
to  her  face  as  she  looked. 

"  It  is  my  papa — my  own  splendid  papa.     And  there  isn't 
one  among  them  all  who  looks  half  as  much  like  a  king  as 

he  I" 

*:  That's  true  enough  ;  and  as  he  is  the  best,  so  he  is  the 
last.     I  suppose  they  will  be  Hanging  up  yours  near  it  very 


»> 


soon. 

"  But  my  mamma's,  where  is  that  ?  Is  not  her  picture 
here  as  well  as  the  rest  ? " 

Tom  looked  at  her,  and  suppressed  a  whistle. 

"  Your  mamma's — oh  I  I  never  saw  her.  I  don't  know 
anything  about  her.  Her  picture  i  not  here,  at  all 
events  I " 

"  She  is  dead  I  "  said  the  child,  in  her  manner  of  grave 
simplicity.     "  I.  never  saw  my  dear  mamma  I  " 

"  Well,  if  she  is  dead,  I  suppose  she  can't  have  her  por-. 
trait  taken  very  easily,  and  that  accounts  1     And  now,   as 
I'm  about  tired  of  going  from  one  room  to  another,  suppose 
we  go  out  and  have  a  look  at  the  old  convent  I  promised  to 
show  you.     What  do  you  think  of  the  house  ?  " 

"  It's  a  very  great  place  1 " 

"  And  the  Cliffes  have  been  very  great  people  in  their 
time,  too  ;  and  are  yet,  for  that  matter  :  best  blood  in 
Sussex,  not  to  say  in  all  England.'* 

"  Are  you  a  Cliflfe  ?  " 

"  No — more's  the  pity  1     I  am  nothing  but  a  Shirley  !  " 

"  Is  that  girl  ?  " 

"What  girl?" 

"  Mademoiselle  Marguerite.  We  three  are  cousins,  I 
know,  but  I  can't  quite  understand  it !  " 

"  Well,  look  here,  then,  and  I'll  demonstrate  it  so  that 
even  your  low  capacity  can  grapple  with  the  subject.  Once 
upon  a  time,  there  were  three  brothers  by  the  name  of  Shir- 
ley :  the  oldest  married  Lady  Agnes  Cliffe,  and  he  is  dead  ; 
the  second  married  my  mother,  and  they're  both  dead  ;  the 
third  married  Mademoiselle  Marguerite's  mother,  and  they're 
both  dead,  too — dying  was  a  bad  habit  the  Shirleys  had. 
Don't  you  see — it's  as  clear  as  mud." 

"  I  see !  and  that  is  why  you  both  live  here." 


A 


J 


I 


-^^» 


CAvSTLB   CI.IFFE. 


75 


"  That's  why  I  And  Mag  would  have  had  this  place,  only 
you  turned  up — bad  job  for  her,  you  see !  Sir  Roland 
offered  to  take  me  ;  but  as  I  had  some  claim  on  Lady 
Agnes,  and  none  at  all  on  him,  she  wouldn't  hear  of  such  a 
thing  at  any  price." 

'*  Sir  Roland  is  the  stout  gentleman  who  told  e  call 
him  uncle,  then,  and — grandmamma's  brother.  Ha?^  e  no 
wife  ?  " 

"None  now;  she's  defunct.  He  has  a  s.  p.o.  up  at 
Oxford,  Leicester  Shirley — Cliflfe,  they  call  him,  ai  i  j:ist  the 
kind  of  fellow  you  would  like,  I  know.  P'  'ap''  he  will 
marry  you  some  day  when  he  comes  home  ;  it  would  be 
just  the  thing  for  him  1 " 

*'  Marry  me  1  He  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  Miss 
Vivia,  with  some  dignity,  and  a  good  deal  of  asperity.  "  I 
shall  marry  nobody  but  Claude.  I  wouldn't  have  anybody 
else  for  the  world."  .    -  - 

"  Who  is  Claude  ?  " 
•   "  Why,  just  Claude — nothing   else  ;  but  he  will  be  Mar- 
quis  de    St.  Hilary   some  day,  and   I  will   be  Madame  la 
Marquise.     He  is  a  great  deal  handsomer  than  you,  and  I 
like  him  ever  so  much  better  I  " 

"  I  don't  believe  itl  I'm  positive  you  like  me  better  than 
anybody  else  in  the  world,  or  at  least  you  will  when  we  come 
to  be  a  little  better  acquainted.  Almost  every  little  girl 
falls  in  love  the  moment  she  claps  her  eyes  on  me  1  " 

Genevieve  lifted  her  blue  eyes,  flashing  vvith  mingled 
astonishment  and  indignation  ;  but  Tom's  face  was  per- 
fectly dismal  in  its  seriousness,  and  he  bore  her  angry  re- 
gards without  wincing. 

"  You  say  the  thing  that  is  not  true,  Monsieur  Tom.  I 
shall  never  love  you  as  long  as  I  live !  " 

"  Then  all  I  have  to  say  is,  that  you  ought  to  be  pitied 
for  your  want  of  taste.  But  it  is  just  as  well  :  for,  in  case 
you  did  love  me,  it  would  only  be  an  affair  of  a  broken 
heart,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  ;  for  I  wouldn't  marry  you 
if  you  were  the  heiress  of  Castle  Cliffe  ten  times  over.  I 
know  a  girl — I  saw  her  dancing  on  the  tight-rope  at  the 
races  the  other  day — who  is  a  thousand  times  prettier  than 
you,  and  whom  I  intend  making  Mrs.  S.  as  soon  as  I  get 
out  of  ror       bout  jackets. 


1 


I!"     I 


76       THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CUFFE. 

Genevieve  looked  horrified.  In  her  peculiar  simplicity, 
she  took  every  word  for  gospel. 

"  A  tight-rope  dancer  I     Oh,  Tom  I  what  will  grandmamma 

say  ?  " 

"  I  don't  care  what  she  says  !  "  said  Tom,  desperately, 
thrusting  his  hands  into  his  pockets.  *•  A  tight-rope  dancer 
is  as  good  as  anybody  else;  and  I  won't  be  the  first  of  the 
family,  either,  who  has  tried  that  dodge." 

This  last  was  added  sotto  voce ;  but  the  little  girl  heard  it, 
and  there  was  a  perceptible  drawing  up  of  the  small  figure, 
and  an  unmistakable  erecting  of  the  proud  little  head. 

'*  I  don't  see  how  any  Cliffe  could  make  such  a  mhaUiance^ 
and  I  don't  believe  any  of  them  ever  did  it.  I  should  think 
vou  would  be  ashamed  to  speak  of  such  a  thing,  cousin 
Tom." 

"  You  despise  ballet-dancers,  then  ?  "  ' 

"Of  course." 

"  And  actresses,  also  ?  " 

'•''Mais  certainement !  It  is  all  the  same.  Claude  often 
said  he  would  die  before  he  would  make  a  low  marriage  ; 
and  so  would  I." 

Tom  thrust  his  hands  deeper  into  his  trowsers  pockets, 
rolled  up  his  eyes  to  the  firmament,  and  gave  vent  to  his . 
feelings  in  a  prolonged  whistle.  '  '     • 

"  And  this  little  princess,  with  her  chin  up  and  her  eyes 
flashing,  is  the  daughter  of  a  nameless  French  actress,"  was 
his  thought. 

Then,  aloud  : 

"  You  seem  to  have  very  distinct  ideas  on  the  subject  of 
matrimony.  Miss  Victoria.  Was  it  in  your  convent  you 
learned  them  ? "  . 

"  Of  course  not.  But  Claude,  and  I,  and  Ignacia  have 
talked  of  it  a  thousand  times  in  the  holidays.  And,  cousin 
Tom,  if  you  marry  your  dancing-girl,  how  will  you  live? 
You  are  not  rich  1 " 

"  No  ;  you  might  swear  that,  without  fear  of  perjury. 
But  my  wife  and  I  intend  to  set  up  a  cigar-shop,  and  get  our 
rich  relations  to  patronise  us.  There,  don't  look  so  dis- 
gusted, but  look  at  the  ruins." 

While  talking,  they  had  been  walking  along  a  thickly- 
wooded  avenue,  and,  as  Tom  spoke,  they  came  upon  a  semi- 


CASTI.E  CLIFFK. 


77 


I 


circular  space  of  greensward,  with  tlie  ruins  of  an  old  con- 
vent in  the  center.  Nothing  now  remained  but  an  immense 
stone  cross,  bearing  a  long  inscription  in  Latin,  and  the  re- 
mains ol  one  superb  window  in  the  only  unruined  wall.  The 
whole  place  was  overrun  with  ivy  and  tangled  juniper,  even 
the  broad  stone  steps  that  led  up  to  what  once  had  been  the 
grand  altar. 

"Look  at  those  stains,"  said  Tom,  pointing  to  some  dark 
spots  on  the  upper  step.  "  They  say  that's  blood,  i^ady 
Edith  Cliffe  was  the  last  abbess  here,  and  she  was  murdered 
on  those  steps,  in  the  days  of  Thomas  Cromwell,  for  refus- 
ing to  take  the  oath  of  supremacy.  The  sunshine  and  storms 
of  hundreds  of  years  have  been  unable  to  remove  the  traces 
of  the  crime.  And  the  townfolk  say  a  tall  woman,  all  in 
black  and  white,  walks  here  on  moonlight  nights.  As  I 
have  never  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  the  ghost,  I  cannot 
vouch  for  that  part  of  the  story,  but  I  can  show  you  her  grave. 
They  buried  her  down  here,  with  a  stake  through  her  heart ; 
and  the  place  is  called  the  '  Nun's  Grave  '  from  that  day  to 
this."  ,    -  ..    r     ' 

Genevieve  stooped  down  and  reverently  kissed  the  stained 
stones. 

"  1  am  glad  I  am  a  Cliffe  1 "  she  said,  as  she  arose  and  fol- 
lowed him  down  the  paved  aisle. 

The  grave  was  not  far  distant.  They  entered  a  narrow 
path,  with  dismal  yew  and  gloomy  elm  interlacing  their 
branches  overhead,  shutting  out  the  summer  sunshine — a  spot 
as  dark  and  lonely  as  the  heart  of  an  old  primeval  forest. 
And  at  the  foot  of  a  patriarchal  dryad  of  yew  was  a  long 
mound,  with  a  black  marble  slab  at  the  head,  without  name, 
or  date,  or  inscription. 

"  Horrid,  dismal  old  place  1 — isn't  it  ?  "  said  Tom,  fling- 
ing himself  on  the  grass.  "  But,  dismal  or  not,  I  am  about 
done  up,  and  intend  to  rest  here.     Why,  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

For  Genevieve,  looking  down  at  the  grass,  had  suddenly 
turned  of  a  ghostly  whiteness,  and  sunk  down  in  a  violent 
tremor  and  faintness  across  the  mound.  Tom  spiung  up  in 
dire  alarm. 

"  Vivia,  Vivia  !     What  in  the  world  is  this  ?  " 

She  did  not  speak. 

He  lifted  her  up,  and  she  clung  with  a  nameless,  trembling 


78       THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CUFFE. 

terror  to  his  arm,  her  very  lips  blanched  to  the  whiteness  of 
death. 

"  Vivia,  what  under  heaven  is  this  ? " 

The  pale  lips  parted. 

"  Nothing  I  "  she  said,  in  a  voice  that  could  scarcely  be 
heard.     "  Let  us  go  away  from  this." 

He  drew  her  arm  within  his,  and  lod  her  away,  my§tirted 
beyond  expression.  But,  in  the  terrible  after-days,  when  the 
"  Nun's  Grave "  had  more  of  horror  for  him  than  Hades 
itself,  he  had  reason  to  remember  Vivia's  first  visit  there. 


VICTORIA  REGIA. 


79 


•      '-'.        '   t 


CHAPTER  IX. 


VICTORIA    REGIA. 


i 


"M 


■) 


Pefore  the  end  of  the  first  week,  the  little  heiress  was 
thoroughly  domesticated  at  Castle  Cliffe.  Everybody  liked 
her,  from  Lady  Agnes  down  to  the  kitchen-maids,  who  some- 
times had  the  honor  of  dropping  her  a  courtesy,  and  receiv- 
ing a  gracious  little  smile  in  return.  Lady  Agnes  had  keen 
eyes,  and  reading  her  like  a  printed  book,  saw  that  the  little 
girl  was  aristocrat  to  the  core  of  her  heart.  If  she  wept,  as 
she  once  or  twice  found  occasion  to  do,  it  was  like  a  little 
lady,  noiselessly,  with  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  and  her 
face  buried  in  her  arm.  If  she  laughed,  it  was  careless,  low, 
and  musical,  and  with  an  air  of  despising  laughter  all  the 
time.  Sho  never  romped  ;  she  never  screamed  ;  she  was 
never  rud  Heaven  forbid  I  The  blue  blood  of  the  Cliffes 
certainly  flo.ved  with  proud  propriety  through  those  delicate 
veins.  The  '^jirl  of  twelve,  too,  understood  it  all,  as  the  duck- 
ling understands  swimming,  by  intuition,  and  was  as  radically 
and  unaffectedly  haughty  in  her  way  as  Lady  Agnes  in  hers. 
She  was  proud  of  the  Cliflfes,  and  of  their  long  pcdigiee  ; 
proud  of  their  splendid  house  and  its  splendid  surroundings; 
proud  of  her  stately  grandmother  ;  and  proudest  oi  Ji  of  her 
handsome  papa. 

"  The  child  is  well  named,"  said  Lady  Agnes,  with  a  con- 
scious smile.  **  She  is  Victoria — exactly  like  her  namesake, 
that  odd,  wild  beautiful  flower,  the  Victoria  Regia." 

Everybody  in  Cliftonlea  was  wild  to  see  the  heiress-r-the 
return  of  her  father  had  been  nothing  to  this  furor ;  so  the 
white  muslin  and  blue  ribbons  were  discarded  for  brilliant 
silks  and  nodding  plumes,  and  Lady  Agnes  and  Miss  Shirley 
drove  through  the  town  in  a  grand  barouche,  half  buried 
among  amber-velvet  cushions,  and  looking  Hire  a  full-blown 


I 


m 


11 


! 


it 


II 
! 


80       THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CI.IFFE. 

queen  and  a  princess  in  the  bud.  Certainly,  it  was  a  be-  . 
wildering  change  for  the  little  gmy-Tohed  pmsion/taire  of  the  •. 
French  convent. 

It  was  a  hot,  sultry  September  afternoon,  with  a  high  wind, 
a  brassy  sun,  and  crimson  clouds  in  a  dull,  leaden  sky — a 
Saturday  afternoon,  and  a  half- holiday  with  Tom  Shirley, 
who  stood  before  the  'portico  of  the  hall  door,  holding  the 
bridles  of  two  ponies — cne  his  own,  the  other  cousin  Vic- 
toria's. This  latter  was  a  perfect  miracle  of  Arabian  beauty, 
snowy  white,  slender-limbed,  arch-necked,  fiery-eyed,  full  of 
spirit,  yet  gentle  as  a  lamb  to  a  master- hand.  It  was  a  pres- 
ent from  Sir  Roland  to  the  heiress  of  Castle  Cliflfe,  and  had 
been  christened  by  that  small  young  lady  '*  Claude  " — a 
title  which  Tom  indignantly  repudiated  for  its  former  one  of 
"  Leicester."  The  girl  and  boy  were  bound  for  a  gallop  to 
Sir  Roland's  home,  Cliffewood,  a  distance  of  some  seven 
miles ;  and  while  Tom  stood  holding  in  the  impatient  ponies,  , 
the  massive  hall  door  was  thrown  open  by  the  obsequious 
porter,  and  the  heiress  herself  tripped  out. 

Tom  had  very  gallantly  told  her  once  that  the  rope-dancer 
was  a  thousand  times  prettier  than  she  :  but  looking  at  her 
now,  as  she  stood  for  one  moment  on  the  topmost  step,  he 
cried  inwardly,  "  Peccavi  /  "  and  repented.  Certainly,  noth- 
ing could  have  been  lovelier — the  light,  slender  figure  in  an 
exquisitely-fitting  habit  of  blue  ;  yellow  gauntlets  on  the  fairy 
hands,  one  of  which  lightly  lifted  her  flowing  skirt,  and  the 
other  poising  the  most  exquisite  of  riding-whips  ;  the  fiery 
lances  of  sunshine  glancing  through  ti.c  sunny  curis  flowing 
to  the  waist,  the  small  black  riding-hat  and  waving  plume 
tied  with  azure  ribbons  ;  the  sunlight  flasinng  in  her  bright 
blue  eyes,  and  kissing  the  rose-tint  on  her  pearly  cheeks. 
Yes,  Victoria  ohirley  was  prettj' — a  very  different-looking  • 
girl  Irom  the  pale,  dim,  colorless  Genevieve  who  had  arrived 
a  little  over  a  week  before.  And,  as  she  came  tripping  down 
the  steps,  planting  one  dainty  foot  in  Tom's  palm,  and 
springing  easily  into  her  saddle,  his  boy's  heart  gave  a  quick  . 
bound,  and  his  pulses  an  electric  thrill.  He  leaped  on  his  : 
own  horse  ;  the  girl  smilingly  kissed  the  tips  of  Ler  yellow 
gauntlets  to  Lady  Agnes  in  her  chamber  window,  and  they  . 
dashed  away  in  the  teeth  of  the  wind,  her  curls  waving  be- 
hind like  a  golden  banner.     Vivia  rode  well — it  was  an  ac- 


VICTORIA  REGIA. 


8i 


complishment  she  had  learned  in  France ;  the  immense  iron 
gates  under  the  lofty  stone  arch  split  open  at  their  approach, 
and  away  they  dashed  through  Cliftonlea.  All  the  town  flew 
to  the  doors  and  windows,  and  gfized,  in  profound  admiration 
and  envy,  after  the  twain  as  they  flew  by — the  bold,  dark- 
eyed,  dark-haired,  manly  boy,  and  the  delicate  fairy,  with  the 
blue  eyes  and  golden  hair,  beside  him.  The  high  wind 
deepened  the  roses  and  brightened  the  light  in  Vivia's  eyes, 
until  she  was  glowin,of  like  a  second  Ayrora  when  they  leaped 
oflf  their  horses  at  the  villa's  gates.  This  villa  was  a  pretty 
place — a  very  pretty  place,  but  painfully  new ;  for  which 
reason  Vivia  did  not  like  it  at  all.  The  grounds  were  spacious 
and  beautifully  laid  out;  the  villa  was  2l  chef  (fcsuvre  of 
Gothic  architecture  ;  but  it  had  been  built  by  Sir  Roland 
himself,  and  nobody  ever  thought  of  coming  to  see  it.  Sir 
Roland  did  not  care,  for  he  liked  comfort  a  great  deal  better 
than  historic  interest  and  leaky  roofs,  and  told  Lady  Agnes, 
with  a  good-natured  laugh,  when  she  spoke  of  it  in  her 
scornful  way,  that  she  might  live  in  her  old  ruined  convent 
if  she  liked,  but  he  would  stick  to  his  commodious  villa. 
Now  he  came  down  the  grassy  lawn  to  meet  them,  and  wel- 
comed them  with  cordiality  ;  for  the  new  heiress  wart  an 
immense  favorite  of  his  already. 

"Aunt  Agnes  thought  it  would  do  Vic  good  to  gallop 
over,"  said  Tom.  switching  his  boot  with  his  whip,  "  So 
here  we  are.  But  you  needn't  invite  us  to  stay  ;  for,  as  this 
is    Saturday  afternoon,   you    know    it   couldn't   be   heard 

of!"    '  ^      -^  ■■  '■  ■■-    '    ■•'    :'^::.  '^■'•;:' 

"  Oh,  yes  !  "  said  Vic — a  name  which  Tom  had  adopted 
for  shortness ;  "we  ought  to  go  right  back ;  for  Tom  is 
going  to  show  me  something  wonderful  down  on  the  shore. 
Why,  uncle  Roland,  what  is  this  ? " 

They  had  entered  a  high,  cool  hall,  with  glass  doors 
thrown  open  at  each  end,  showing  a  sweeping  vista  of  lawns, 
and  terraces,  and  shrubbery,  rich  with  statues  and  portraits ; 
and  before  one  of  these  the  speaker  had  made  so  sudden  a 
halt  that  the  two  others  stopped  also.  It  was  a  picture,  in  a 
splendid  frame,  of  a  little  boy  some  eight  years  old,  with 
long,  bright  cuils,  much  the  same  as  her  own  ;  blue  eyes, 
too,  but  so  much  darkef  than  hers  that  they  seemed  almost 
black;  the  straight,  delicate   features  characteristic  of  the 


82       THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CIvlFFE. 


;i    ■' 


4. 


i 


^ 


Cliffes,  and  a  smile  like  an  angel's.  It  was  really  a  beauti- 
ful face — much  more  so  than  "her  own  ;  and  the  girl  clasped 
her  hands  in  her  peculiar  manner,  and  looked  at  it  in  a  per- 
fect ecstasy. 

**  Why,"  Tom  was  beginning  impetuously,  "  where  did 
you—"  when  Sir  Roland,  smilingly,  caught  his  arm  and 
interposed. 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Tom.  Little  boys  should  be  seen 
and  not  heard.     Well,  Vic,  do  you  know  who  that  is  ? " 

"It  looks  like — it  does  look  like" — a  little  doubtfully, 
though—"  my  papa." 

''  So  it  does  ;  the  forehead,  and  mouth,  and  hair  are  alike, 
exactly.     But  it  is  not  your  papa.     Guess  again." 

"  Oh,  I  can't.     I  hate  guessing.     Tell  me  who  it  is." 

"  It  is  a  portrait  of  my  stepson,  Leicester,  taken  when  a 
child ;  and  the  reason  you  never  saw  it  before  is,  it  has  been 
getting  new-framed.     Good-looking  little  fellow,  eh  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it  is  beautiful !     It  is  an  angel !  " 

Sir  Roland  and  Tom  both  laughed;  but  Tom's  was  a 
perfect  shout. 

"  Leicester  Cliffe  an  angel  !  Oh,  ye  gods  !  won't  I  tell 
him  the  next  time  I  see  him  ;  and  he  the  veriest  scamp  that 
ever  flogged  a  f ag  !  " 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind,  Vic  ! "  said  Sir  Roland  as  Vic 
colored  with  mortification.  "  Leicester  is  an  excellent  fel- 
low ;  and  when  he  comes  home,  you  and  he  will  be  capital 
friends,  I'm  sure." 

Vic  brightened  up  immediately. 

"  And  when  will  he  be  home,  uncle  Roland  ?  " 

'*  That's  uncertain — perhaps  at  Christmas." 

"  Is  he  old  ?  " 

"  Considerably  stricken  in  years,  but  not  quite  as  old  as 
Methuselah's  cat,"  struck  in  Tom.     "  He  is  eighteen." 

"  Does  he  look  like  that  now  ?  " 

'<  Except  that  all  those  young  lady-like  curls,  and  that  in- 
nocent expression,  and  those  short  jackets  are  gone,  he  does ; 
and  then  he  is  as  tall  as  a  May-pole,  or  as  Tom  Shirley. 
Come  in  and  have  lunch." 

Sir  Roland  led  the  way ;  and  after  luncheon  the  cousins 
mounted  their  horses  and  rode  to  the  Castle.  The  sun  was 
setting  in  an  oriflamme  of  crimson  and  black,  and  the  wind 


VICTORIA  RKGIA. 


83 


had  risen  to  a  perfect  gale,  but  Tom  insisted  on  his  cousin  ac- 
companying him  to  the  shore,  nevertheless.     <  ' 

"  I  won't  be  able  to  show  the  Dev — I  mean  the  Demon's 
Tower,  until  next  Saturday,  unless  you  come  now  ;  so  be  off, 
Vic,  and  change  your  dress.  It  is  worth  going  to  see,  I  can 
tell  you ! " 

Vic,  nothing  loth,  flew  up  the  great  oaken  staircase  with 
its  gilded  balustrade,  to  her  own  beautiful  room,  and  soon 
reappeared  in  a  gay  silk  robe  and  black  velvet  basque.  As 
she  joined  Tom  in  the  avenue,  she  recoiled,  in  surprise  and 
displeasure,  to  see  that  Margaret  was  with  him. 

"  Don't  be  cross,  Vic,"  whispered  Tom,  giving  her  a  coax- 
ing pinch.  "  She  was  sitting  moping  like  an  old  hen  with 
the  distemper,  under  the  trees,  and  I  thought  it  would  be 
only  an  act  of  Christian  politeness  to  ask  her.  Come  on, 
she  won't  eat  you  ;  come  on,  Mag  I  " 

Tom's  long  legs  measured  off  the  ground  as  if  he  were 
shod  with  seven-leagued  boots  ;  and  the  two  girls,  running 
breathlessly  at  his  side,  had  enough  to  do  to  keep  up  with 
him.  The  shore  was  about  a  half  mile  distant,  but  he  knew 
lots  of  short  cuts  through  the  trees ;  and  before  long  they 
were  on  the  sands  and  scrambling  over  the  rocks,  Tom  hold- 
ing Vic's  hand,  and  Margaret  making  her  way  in  the  best 
manner  she  could,  with  now  and  then  an  encouraging  word 
from  him.  The  sky  looked  dark  and  menacing,  the  wind 
raged  over  the  heaving  sea,  and  the  surf  washed  the  rocks, 
far  out,  in  great  billows  of  foam. 

"  Look  there  1  "  said  Tom,  pointing  to  something  that 
really  looked  like  a  huge  mass  of  stone  tower.  "  That's  the 
Demon's  Tower,  and  they  call  that  tHe  Storm  Bar  beyond 
it.  We  can  walk  to  it  now,  because  the  tide  is  low,  but  any 
one  caught  there  at  high  water  would  be  drowned  for  cer- 
tain, unless  it  was  an  uncommon  swimmer.  There's  no 
danger  now,  though,  as  it's  far  out.  So  make  haste,  and 
come  along." 

But  over  .the  slippery  rocks  and  slimy  seaweed  Vic  could 
not  "  come  along  "  at  all.  Seeing  which,  Tom  lifted  her  in 
his  arms,  with  as  much  ceremony  and  difficulty  as  if  she  had 
been  a  kitten  ;  and  calling  to  Margaret  to  mind  her  eye,  and 
not  break  her  neck,  bounded  from  jag  to  jag  with  as  much 
ease  as  a  goat.     Margaret,  slipping  and  falling,  and  rising 

I 


: 


\  1 


I 


'I 
I 


84         THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CUFFE. 

again,  followed  patiently  on,  and  in  fifteen  minutes  they  were 
in  the  cavern,  and  Vic  was  standing,  laughing  and  breath- 
less, on  her  own  pedals  once  more. 

It  was  in  reality  a  tower  without  a  top ;  for  some  twenty 
feet  above  them  they  could  see  the  dull,  leaden  sky,  and  the 
sides  were  as  steep,  and  perpendicular,  and  unclimbable  as 
the  walls  of  a  house.  The  cavern  was  sufficiently  spacious ; 
and  opposite  the  low,  natural  archway  by  which  they  entered 
were  half  a  dozen  rough  steps  cut  in  the  rocks,  and  above 
them  was  a  kind  of  seat  made  by  a  projecting  stone.  The 
place  was  filled  with  hollow,  weird  sounds,  something  be- 
tween the  sound  we  hear  in  sea-shells  and  the  mournful 
sighing  of  an  Eolian  harp,  and  the  eflfect  altogether  was  un- 
speakably wild  and  melancholy.  Again  Vic  clasped  her 
hands,  this  time  in  mingled  awe  and  delight. 

"  What  a  place  1  How  the  sea  and  wind  roar  among  the 
rocks.     I  could  stay  here  forever  1  " 

"  I  have  often  been  here  for  hours  on  a  stretch  with  Lei- 
cester Cliffe,"  said  Tom.  "  We  cut  those  steps  in  the  rock; 
and,  when  we  were  little  shavers,  he  used  to  play  Robinson 
Crusoe,  and  I,  Man  Friday.  We  named  it  Robinson  Crusoe 
Castle  ;  but  that  was  too  long  for  every  day  :  so  the  people 
in  Lower  Cliffe — the  fishing  village  over  there — called  it  the 
Devil's  Tower.  Vic,  sing  a  song,  and  hear  how  your  voice 
will  echo  round  those  stone  walls  1  '' 

"  But,"  said  Margaret,  "  I  don't  think  it's  safe  to  stay  here, 
Tom.  You  know  when  the  tide  rises  it  fills  this  place  nearly 
to  the  top,  and  would  drown  us  all !  "  "" 

"  Doi't  hi  ,\  goose,  Maggie ;  there's  no  danger,  I  tell  you! 
Vic,  get  up  in  Robinson  Crusoe's  seat,  and  I'll  be  Man 
Frid?y  -»g?'-n,  t?:id  lie  here  at  yo  ir  feet." 

Vk  rot  ii»>  tlic  stej>s  and  so.led  herself  on  the  stone  ledge ; 
Tom  ri,;!i,;  hiTVielC  on  the  stone  floor,  and  Margaret  sat  down 
on  a  fife  -f  dry  seaweed  i;.  the  corner.  Then  Vic  sung 
some  wild  VeHO.kt;.  h-ircarole,  that  echoed  and  re-echoed, 
and  rung  "Ail  01  he  wind,  in  a  way  that  equally  amazed  and 
delighted  hvi.  Again  and  again  she  sung,  fascinated  by  the 
wild  and  beautiful  echo,  and  Tom  joined  in  loud  choruses  of 
his  own,  and  Margaret  listened  seemingly  quite  as  much  de- 
lighted as  they,  until  suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  the  loudest 
strain,  she  sprung  to  her  feet  with  a  sharp  cry. 


VICTORIA  REGIA. 


85 


ire 

th- 

ity 
he 


■  J  "  Tom  I  Tom  1  the  tide  is  upon  us  1 " 

Instantly  Tom  was  on  his  feet,  as  if  he  were  made  from 
head  to  heel  of  spring-steel,  and  out  of  the  black  arch.  For 
nearly  two  yards,  the  space  before  the  archway  was  clear  of 
the  surf ;  but  owing  to  a  peculiar  curve  in  the  shore,  the 
Tower  had  become  an  island,  and  was  almost  encircled  by 
the  foaming  waves.  The  dull  day  was  darkening,  too  ;  the 
fierce  blast  dashed  the  spray  up  in  his  eyes,  and  in  one 
frantic  glance  he  saw  that  escape  was  impossible.  He  could 
not  swim  to  the  shore  in  that  surf ;  neither  he  nor  they  could 
climb  up  the  steep  sides  of  the  cavern,  and  they  all  must 
drown  where  they  were.  Not  for  himself  did  he  care — brave 
Tom  never  thought  of  himself  in  that  moment,  nor  even  of 
Margaret,  only  of  Vic.  In  an  instant  he  wag  back  again, 
and  kneeling  at  her  feet  on  the  stone  floor. 

"  I  promised  to  protect  you  I  "  he  cried  out,  "  and  see  how 
I  have  kept  my  word  I  " 

"  Tom,  is  it  true  ?    Can  we  not  escape  ? " 

"  No ;  the  sea  is  around  us  on  every  hand,  and  in  twenty 
minutes  will  be  over  that  arch  and  over  our  heads  I  Oh,  I 
wish  I  had  been  struck  dead  before  ever  I  broug  you 
here  1  " 

"  And  can  we  do  nothing?  "  said  Vic,  clasping  he  nands 
— always  her  impulse.  "  If  we  could  only  climb  0  the 
top." 

"  Again  Tom  bounded  to  his  feet. 

"  I  will  try !  There  may  be  a  rope  there,  aiid  it  is  a 
chance,  after  all  1  "         ^ 

In  a  twinkling  he  was  at  the  top  of  Robinson's  seat,  and 
clutching  frantically  at-  invisible  fragments  of  rock,  to  help 
him  up  the  steep  ascent.  But  in  vain  ;  worse  than  in  vain. 
Neither  sailor  nor  monkey  could  have  climbed  up  there,  and, 
with  a  sharp  cry,  he  missed  his  hold,  and  was  hurl  .^  back, 
stunned  and  senseless,  to  the  floor.  The  salt  spray  came 
dashing  in  their  faces  as  they  knelt  beside  him.  Margaret 
shrieked,  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  cowered 
down,  and  "  Oh^  Sancta  Maria^  Mater  Dei,  ora  pro  nobis 
Peccatoribus,  nunc  et  in  hora  mortis  nostra  ! "  murmured  the 
pale  lips  of  the  French  girl. 

And  still  the  waters  rose  !  \  "" 


86         THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTILE  CI^IFFE, 


CHAPTER  X. 


BARBARA. 


Ut 


The  Cliftonlea  races  were  over  and  well  over,  but  at  least 
one  third  of  the  pleasure-seekers  went  home  disappointed. 
The  races  had  been  "^^^uccessful  ;  the  weather  propitious  ; 
but  one  great  point  ot  attraction  had  mysteriously  disap- 
peared— after  the  first  day,  the  Infant  Venus  vanished  and 
was  seen  no  more.  The  mob  had  gone  wild  about  her,  and 
had  besieged  the  theater  clamorously  next  day  ;  but  when 
another  and  very  clumsy  Ten  us  was  substituted,  and  she 
was  not  to  be  found,  the  manager  nearly  had  his  theater 
pulled  down  about  his  ears,  in  their  angry  disappointment. 
None  could  tell  what  had  become  of  her,  except,  perhaps, 
Mr.  Sweet — which  prudent  gentleman  enchanted  the  race- 
ground  no  longer  with  his  presence  but  devoted  himself  ex- 
clusively to  a  little  business  of  his  own. 

It  was  a  sweltering  August  evening.  The  sun,  that  had 
throbbed  and  blazed  all  day  like  a  great  heart  of  fire  in  a 
cloudless  sky,  was  going  slowly  down  behind  the  Sussex 
hills,  but  a  few  vagrant  wandering  sunbeams  lingered  still 
on  the  open  window,  and  along  the  carpetless  floor,  in  an 
upper  room  in  the  Cliffe  Arms.  It  was  a  small  room,  with 
an  attic  roof — stifling  hot  just  now,  and  filled  with  reeking 
fumes  of  tobacco  ;  for  Mr.  Peter  Black  sat  near  the  empty 
fireplace,  smoking  like  a  volcano.  There  were  two  ladies 
in  the  room ;  but,  despite  their  presence  and  the  suffocating 
atmosphere,  Mr.  Black  kept  his  hat  on,  for  the  wearing  of 
which  article  of  dress  he  partly  atoned  by  being  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves, and  very  much  out  at  the  elbows  at  that.  One  of 
these  ladies,  rather  stricken  in  years,  exceedingly  crooked, 
exceedingly  yellow,  and  with  an  exceedingly  sharp  and  vi- 
cious expression  generally,  sat  on  a  low  stool  opposite  him  ; 
her  skinny  elbows  on  her  knees,  her   skinny  chin   in    her 


■<m»amfsmmn 


BARBARA. 


87 


hands,  and  her  small,  rat-like  eyes  transfixing  him  with  an 
unwinking  stare.  The  second  lady — a  youthful  angel  arrayed 
in  faded  gauze,  ornamented  with  tawdry  ribbons  and  tar- 
nished tinsel — stood  by  the  open  window,  trying  to  catch  the 
slightest  breeze,  but  no  breeze  stirred  the  stagnant  air  of  the 
sweltering  August  afternoon.  It  was  the  Infant  Venus,  of 
course — looking  like  anything  just  now,  however,  but  a 
Venus  in  her  shabby  dress,  her  uncombed  and  tangled  pro- 
fusion of  hair,  and  the  scowl  that  darkened  the  pretty  face. 
There  never  was  greater  nonsense  than  that  trite  old  adage 
of  "  beauty  unadorned  being  'adorned  the  most."  Beauty  in 
satin  and  diamonds  is  infinitely  more  beaut'f .  1  than  the 
same  in  linsey-woolsey,  and  the  caterpillar  wii  >  ^ulky  face 
and  frowsed  hair,  looking  out  of  the  window,  was  no  more 
like  the  golden  butterfly,  wreathed  and  smiling  on  the  tight- 
rope, than  a  real  caterpillar  is  like  a  real  butterfly.  In  fact, 
none  of  the  three  appeared  to  be  in  the  best  of  humors  :  the 
man  looked  dogged  and  scowling  ;  the  old  woman  fierce 
■»and  wrathful,  and  the  g^'-l  gloomy  and  sullen.  They  had 
bf-^n  in  exactly  the  same  position  for  at  least  two  hours  with- 
out speaking,  when  the  girl  suddenly  turned  round  from  the 
window,  with  flashing  eyes  and  fiery  face. 

"  Father,  I  want  to  know  how  long  we  are  to  be  kept 
roasting  alive  in  this  place  ?  If  you  don't  let  me  out,  I  will 
jump  out  of  the  window  to-night,  though  I  break  my  neck 
for  it  I  " 

"  Do,  and  be  hanged,"  growled  Mr.  Black,  surlily,  with- 
out looking  up. 

"  What  have  we  come  here  for  at  all  ?  Why  have  we  left 
the  theater  ?  " 

"  Find  out  1  "  said  Mr.  Black,  laconically. 

The  girl's  eyes  flamed,  and  her  hands  clenched,  but  the 
old  woman  interposed.  -  - 

"  Barbara,  you're  a  fool !  and  fools  ask  more  questions  in 
a  minute  than  a  wise  man  can  answer  in  a  day.  We  have 
come  here  for  your  good,  and — there's  a  knock — open  the 
door." 

yellow   old  ogre    again."  muttered    Barbara, 

door.      '*  I  know  he's  at    the   bottom    of  all 

this,  and  I  should  like  to  scratch  his  eyes  out — I  should  !  " 

She  unlocked  the  door   as  she  uttered  the  gentle  wish  ; 


"  It's   that 
going  to  the 


88        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CLIFFE. 


\ 


I)  < 


t 


and  the  yellow  old  ogre,  in  the  person  of  the  ever-smiling 
Mr.  S».  et,  stepped  in.  Certainly  he  was  smiling  just  now 
— quite  radiantly,  in  fact  ;  and  his  waistcoat,  and  whiskers, 
and  hair,  and  profusion  of  jewelry,  seemed  to  scintillate 
sparks  of  sunshine  and  smile,  too. 

"  And  how  does  my  charming  little  Venus  find  herself 
this  warm  evening — blooming  as  a  rosebud,  I  hope  " — he 
began,  chuckling  her  playfully  under  the  chin — "  and  the 
dear  old  lady  quite  well  and  cheerful,  I  trust  ;  and  you,  my 
dear  old  boy,  always  smoking  and  enjoying  yourself  after 
your  own  fashion.     How  do  you  all  do  ?  " 

By  way  of  answer,  the  charming  little  Venus  wrenched 
herself  angrily  from  his  grasp  ;  the  dear  old  lady  gave 
him  a  malignant  glance  out  of  her  weird  eyes,  and  the  dear 
old  boy  .smoked  on  with  a  steady  scowl,  and  never  looked  up. 

"  All  silent  1  "  laid  Mr.  Sweet,  drawing  up  a  chair,  and 
looking  silently  i  ound.  *'  Why,  that's  odd,  too  I  Barbara, 
my  dear,  will  you  tell  me  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

Barbara  faced  round  from  the  window  with  rather  dis- 
composing suddenness,  not  to  say  fierceness. 

"The  matter  is,  Mr.  Sweet,  that  I'm  about  tired  of  being 
cooped  up  in  this  hot  hole  ;  and  if  I  don't  get  out  by  fair 
means,  I  will  by  foul,  and  that  before  long.  What  have 
you  brought  us  here  for.  You  needn't  deny  it,  I  know  you 
have  brought  us  here !  " 

"  Quite  right,  Miss  Barbara.     It  was  I  !  " 

*'  Then  I  wish  you  had  just  minded  your  own  business, 
and  let  us  alone.  Come,  let  me  out,  or  I  vow  I  shall  jump 
out  of  the  window,  if  1  break  every  bone  in  my  body." 

"  My  dear  Miss  Barbara,  I  admire  your  spirit  and 
courage,  but  let  us  do  nothing  rash.  If  I  have  brought  you 
here,  it  is  for  your  good,  and  you  will  thank  me  for  it  one 
dav  I " 

"I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  k  id  ;  and  you  won't  thank 
yourself  either,' if  you  don't  let  r.  e  out  pretty  scon.  What 
do  you  mean,  sir,  by  interfering  ith  us,  when  we  weren't 
interfering  with  you  ^   ' 

"  Barbara,  hold  yoi  )ngue  i  again  the  old  lady  sharply 
cut  in.  **  Her  tongue  i  longer  than  the  rest  of  her  body, 
Mr.  Sweet,  and  you  iiusti.  mind  her.  How  dare  you  speak 
so  disrespectful  to  the  p  n^  leman, ;  ^u  minx  1 " 


Hi 


MHM« 


BARBARA. 


89 


"You  needn't  call  either  of  ns  names,  grandmother,"  said 
Barbara,  quite  as  sharply  as  the  old  lady  herself,  and  with  a 
spectral  flash  out  of  her  weird  dark  eyes.  "  \  shouldn't 
think  you  and  father  would  be  such  fools  as  to  be  ordered 
^about  Tjy  an  old  lawyer,  who  had  better  be  minding  his  own 
affairs,  if  he  has  any  to  mind  1  " 

Mr.  Peter  Black,  smoking  stolidly,  still  chuckled  grimly 
under  his  unshaven  beard  at  his  small  daughter's  large 
spirit  ;  and  Mr.  Sweet  looked  at  her  with  mild  reproach. 

"  Gently,  gently.  Miss  Barbara  !  you  think  too  fast  I  As 
you  have  guessed,  it  is  I  who  have  brought  you  here,  and  it 
is,  I  repeat,  for  your  good.  I  saw  you  at  the  races,  and 
liked  you — and  who  could  help  doing  that  ? — and  I  deter- 
mined you  should  not  pass  your  life  in  such  low  drudgery  ; 
for  I  swear  you  were  born  for  a  lady,  and  shall  be  one ! 
Miss  Barbara,  you  are  a  great  deal  too  beaqtiful  for  so  pub- 
lic and  dangerous  a  life,  anc'  I  repeat  again,  you  shall  be  a 
lady  yet  1  " 

•'  How  ? "  said  Barbara,  a  little  mollified,  like  all  of  her 
sex,  by  the  flattery. 

"  Well,  in  the  first  place,  you  shall  be  educated  ;  your 
father  shall  have  a  more  respectable  situation  than  that  of 
ticket-porter  to  a  band  of  strolling  players  ;  and,  lastly, 
when  you  have  grown  up,  I  shall  perhaps  make  you — my 
little  wife !  " 

Mr.  Sweet  laughed  pleasantly,  but  Barbara  shrugged  her 
shoulders,  and  turned  away  with  infinite  contempt. 

"  Oh,  thank  you  1  I  shall  never  be  a  lady  in  that  case, 
I  am  afraid  I  You  may  keep  your  fine  promises,  Mr.  Sweet, 
for  those  who  like  them,  and  let  me  go  back  to  the  theater." 

"  My  dear  child,  when  you  see  the  pretty  cottage  I  have 
for  you  to  live  in,  and  the  fine  dresses  you  shall  have,  and 
all  the  friends  you  will  make,  you  will  think  differently  of 
it.  I  am  aware  this  is  no{  the  most  comfortable  place  in 
the  world,  but  I  came  up  for  the  express  purpose  of  telling 
you  you  are  to  leave  here  to-night.  Yes,  my  good  Black, 
you  will  hold  yourself  in  readiness  to-night  to  quit  this  for 
your  future  home." 

Mr.  Black  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth  and  looked  up 
for  the  first  time.  ^ 

"  Where's  that  ?"  he  gruffly  asked.  -' 


90         THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CLIFFE. 

"  Down  in  Tower  Cliffe,  the  fishing-village  below  here, 
and  I  have  found  you  the  nicest  cottage  ever  you  saw,  where 
you  can  live  as  comfortably  as  a  king  1  " 

••  And  that  respectable  occupation  of  yours — perhaps  it's 
a  ia.vyer's  clerk  you  want  to  make  ofmel  I'm  not  over 
particular,  Lord  knows  I  but  I  don't  want  to  come  to 
that  1 " 

"  My  dear  Black,  don't  be  sarcastic,  if  you  can  help  it  I 
Your  occupation  shall  be  one  of  the  oldest  and  most  re- 
spectable— a  profession  apostles  followed — that  of  a  fisher- 
man, you  know." 

**  I  don't  know  anything  about  the  apostles,"  said  Mr. 
Black,  gruffly,  "  and  I  know  less  about  being  a  fisherman. 
Why  don't  you  set  me  up  for  a  milliner  ;  or  a  lady's  maid, 
at  once  ? " 

"  My  dear  friend,  I  am  afraid  you  got  out  of  the  wrong 
side  of  the  bed  this  morning,  you're  so  uncommon  savage  : 
but  I  can  overlook  that  and  the  few  other  defects  you  are 
troubled  with,  as  people  overlook  spots  on  the  sun.  As  to 
the  fishing,  you'll  soon  learn  all  you  want  to  know,  which 
won't  be  much  ;  and  as  you  will  never  want  a  guinea  while 
I  have  one  in  my  purse,  you  need  never  shorten  your  days 
by  hard  work.  In  three  hours  from  now — that  is,  at  nine 
o'clock — I  will  be  here  with  a  conveyance  to  bear  you  to  your 
new  home.  And  now,"  said  Mr.  Sweet,  rising,  "  as  much 
as  I  regret  it,  I  must  tear  myself  away  ;  for  I  have  an  en- 
gagement with  my  lady  at  the  Castle  in  half  an  hour.  By 
the  way,  have  you  heard  the  news  of  what  happened  at  the 
Castle  the  other  day  ?  " 

"  How  should  we  hear  it  ?  "  said  Mr.  Black,  sulkily.  "  Do 
you  suppose  the  birds  of  the  air  would  fly  in  with  news ; 
and  you  took  precious  good  care  that  none  should  reach  us 
any  other  way  1  "• 

"  True  I  I  might  have  known  you  would  not  hear  it,  but 
it  is  a  mere  trifle  after  all.  The  only  son  of  Lady  Agnes  Shir- 
ley has  returned  home,  after  an  absence  of  twelve  years,  and 
all  Cliftonlea  is  ringing  with  the  news.  Perhaps  you  would 
like  to  hear  the  story,  my  good  Judith,"  said  Mr.  Sweet, 
leaning  smilingly  over  his  chair,  and  fixing  his  eyes  full  on 
the  skinny  face  of  the  old  woman.  "  It  is  quite  a  romance, 
I  assure  you.     A  little  over  thirteen   years  ago,  this  young 


BARBARA. 


9X 


man,  Cliffe  Shirley,  made  a  low  marriage,  a  French  actress, 
very  good,  very  pretty,  but  a  nobody,  you  know.  Actresses 
are  always  nobodies  1  " 

"  And  lawyers  are  something  worse  1  "  interrupted  Bar- 
bara, facing  indignantly  around.  ♦♦  I  would  thank  you  to 
mind  what  you  say  about  actresses,  Mr.  Sweet." 

The  lawyer  bowed  in  deprecation  to  the  little  vixen. 

••  Your  pardon,  Miss  Barbara.  I  hold  myself  rebuked. 
When  my  lady  heard  the  story,  her  wrath,  I  am  told,  was  ter- 
rific. She  comes  of  an  old  and  fiery  race,  you  see,  and  it 
was  an  unhsard-of  atrocity  lo  mix  the  blood  of  the  Cliffes 
with  the  plebeian  puddle  of  a  French  actress,  so  this  only 
son  and  heir  was  cast  off.  Then  came  righteous  retribution 
for  the  sin  against  society  he  had  committed  ;  the  artful  ac- 
tress died,  the  young  man  fled  into  voluntary  exile  in  India, 
to  kill  natives  and  do  penance  for  his  sins,  and  after  spend- 
ing twelve  years  in  these  pleasant  pursuits,  he  has  unex- 
pectedly returned  home,  and  been  received  by  the  great 
lady  of  Castle  Cliffe  with  open  arms  1  " 

"  Oh,  grandmother  !  "  cried  Barbara,  with  animation, 
**  that  must  have  been  the  lady  and  gentleman  we  saw  driv- 
ing past  in  the  grand  carriage  yesterday.  There  were  four 
beautiful  horses,  all  shining  with  silver,  and  a  coachman  and 
footman  in  livery,  and  the  lady  was  dressed  splendidly,  and 
the  gentleman  was — oh  I  ever  so  handsome.  Don't  you  re- 
member, grandmother  ?  " 

But  grandmother,  with  her  eyes  fixed  as  if  fascinated  on 
the  cheerful  face  of  the  narrator,  her  old  hands  trembling, 
and  her  lips  spasmodically  twitching,  was  crouching  away 
in  the  chimney-corner,  and  answered  never  a  word.  Mr. 
Sweet  turned  to  the  girl,  and  took  it  upon  himself  to  an- 
swer. 

"  Right,  Miss  Barbara.  It  was  Lady  Agnes  and  Colonel 
Shirley  ;  no  one  else  in  Cliftonlea  has  such  an  equipage  as 
that  ;  but  your  grandmother  will  like  to  hear  the  rest  of  the 
story. 

"  There  is  a  sequel,  my  good  Judith.  The  young  soldier 
and  the  pretty  actress  had  a  daughter  ;  and  the  child,  after 
remaining  six  years  in  England,  was  taken  away  by  its 
father  and  placed  in  a  French  convetit.  There  it  has  re- 
mained   ever  since  ;    and  yesterday  two  messengers   were 


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Photographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)873-4503 


92         THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CUFFE. 

sent  to  Paris  to  bring  her  home,  and  the  child  of  the  French 
actress  is  now  the  heiress  of  Castle  Cliflfe  1  Miss  Barbara, 
how  would  you  like  to  be  in  her  place  ?  " 

"  You  needn't  ask.     I  would   give  half   my  life  to  be  a  >^ 
lady  for  one  day  !  " 

Mr.  Sweet  laughed  and  turned  to  go ;  and  old  Judith, 
crouching  into  the  chimney-corner,  shook  as  she  heard  it 
like  one  stricken  with  palsy. 

"  Never  mind,  my  pretty  little  Barbara,  you  shall  be  one 
some  day,  or  I'll  not  be  a  living  man.  And  now  you  had 
better  see  to  your  grandmother  ;  I  am  afraid  the  dear  old 
lady  is  not  very  well." 


THE  FIRST  TIME. 


93 


CHAPTER  XI. 


THE    FIRST    TIME. 


The  village  of  Lower  Cliffe  was  a  collection  of  about 
twenty  wretched  cottages,  nestled  away  under  bleak,  craggy 
rocks,  that  sheltered  them  from  the  broiling  seaside  sun. 
About  a  dozen  yards  from  the  one  straggling  road  winding 
away  among  rocks  and  jutting  crags,  was  the  long  sandy 
beach,  where  the  fishermen  mended  their  nets  in  the  sunny 
summer-days,  and  where  their  fishing-boats  were  moored  : 
and  away  beyond  it  spread  the  blue  and  boundless  sea.  To 
the  right,  the  rough,  irregular  road  lost  itself  in  a  mist  of 
wet  marshes  and  swampy  wastes,  covered  with  tall  rank 
grass,  weedy  flowers — bl:''^,  and  yellow,  and  flame-colored — 
and  where  the  cattle  grazed  on  the  rank  herbage  all  day 
long.  To  the  left,  was  piitd  up  miniature  hills  of  seaweedy 
rocks,  with  tall,  in  their  midst,  the  Demon's  Tower ;  and  in 
the  background,  the  sloping  upland  was  bounded  by  the 
high  wall  that  inclosed  the  park-grounds  and  preserves  of 
the  castle.  The  village  belonged  to  Lady  Agnes  Shirley  : 
but  that  august  lady  had  never  set  her  foot  therein.  In  a 
grand  and  lofty  sort  of  way  she  was  aware  of  such  a  place, 
when  her  agent,  Mr.  Sweet,  paid  in  the  rents ;  and  she 
scarcely  knew  anything  more  about  it  than  she  did  of  any 
Hottentot  village  in  Southern  Africa.  And  yet  it  was  down 
here  in  this  obscure  place  that  her  lawyer  located  the  little 
dancing-girl  whom  he  had  promised  one  day  to  make  a 
lady. 

The  delightful  little  cottage  he  had  mentioned  to  Mr. 
Black  stood  away  by  itself  at  the  end  of  the  village  furthest 
from  the  marshes,  and  nearest  the  park-gat^ — a  little  white- 
washed, one-story  affair,  with  its  solitary  door  facing  the 
sea,  and  opening  immediately  into  the  only  large  room  of 
the  house.     The  place  had  been  newly  furnished  by  the 


i 


94         THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CI.IFFE. 

benevolent  lawyer  before  his  protege's  came  there  ;  and  this 
room  was  kitchen,  sitting-room,  dining-room,  and  parlor,  all 
in  one.  There  were  two  small  bedrooms  opening  off  it — 
one  occupied  by  the  old  woman  Judith,  the  other  by  Bar- 
bara ;  and  Mr.  Peter  Black  courted  repose  in  a  loft  above. 

The  little  dancing-girl,  much  as  she  had  regretted  being 
taken  away  from  her  theater  at  first,  grew  reconciled  to  her 
new  home  in  a  Avonderfully  short  space  of  time.  Mr.  Sweet 
had  given  her  a  boat — the  daintiest  little  skiff  that  ever  was 
seen — painted  black,  with  a  crimson  streak  running  round 
it,  and  the  name  "  Barbara  "  printed  in  crimson  letters  on 
the  stern.  And  before  she  had  been  living  two  days  in  the 
cottage,  Barbara  had  learned  to  row.  There  must  have 
been  some  wild  blood  in  the  girl's  veins,  for  she  lived  out  of 
doors  from  morning  till  night,  like  a  gipsy — climbing  up 
impassable  places  like  a  cat — making  the  acquaintance  of 
everybody  in  the  village,  and  taking  to  the  water  like  a  duck. 
Out  long  before  the  sun  rose  red  over  the  sea,  and  out  until 
the  stars  sparkled  on  the  waves,  the  child,  who  had  been 
cooped  up  all  her  life  in  dingy,  g^imy  city  walls,  drank  in 
the  resounding  seaside  wind,  as  if  it  had  been  the  elixir  of 
life,  went  dancing  over  the  marshes  gathering  bouquets 
of  the  tall,  rank,  reedy  blossoms,  and  blue  rockets,  singing 
as  she  went,  springing  from  jag  to  jag  along  the  dizzy  cliffs,' 
with  the  wind  in  her  teeth,  and  her  pretty  brown  hair  blow- 
ing in  the  breeze  behind  her.  It  was  a  new  world  to 
Barbara. 

Mr.  Sweet  was  certainly  the  most  benevolent  of  men.  He 
not  only  paid  the  rent  for  the  tenants  in  the  seaside  cottage, 
but  he  bought  and  paid  for  the  furniture  himself,  and  made 
Barbara  new  presents  every  day.  And  Barbara  took  his 
presents — his  pretty  boat,  the  new  dresses,  the  rich  fruit  and 
flowers  from  the  conservatories  and  parterres  of  the  castle 
and  liked  the  gifts  immensely,  and  began  to  look  even  with 
a  little  complacency  on  the  giver.  But  being  of  an  intensely 
jealous  nature,  with  the  wildest  dreams  of  ambition  in  her 
childish  head,  and  the  most  passionate  and  impetuous  of 
tempers,  she  never  got  on  very  friendly  terms  with  any  one. 
Barbara  certainly  was  half  a  barbarian.  She  had  not  appar- 
ently the  slightest  affection  for  either  father  or  grandmother  ; 
and  if  she  had  a  heart,  it  lay  dormant  yet,  and  the  girl  loved 


THE  FIRST  TIME. 


95 


nobody  but  herself.  Mr.  Sweet  studied  her  profoundly,  but 
she  puzzled  him.  Scarcely  a  day  passed  but  he  was  at  the 
cottage — taking  the  trouble  to  walk  down  from  his  own 
handsome  house  in  Cliftonlea  ;  and  Barbara  was  never  dis- 
pleased to  see  him,  because  his  hands  or  his  pockets  had 
always  something  good  for  her. 

One  evening,  long  after  sunset,  Mr.  Sweet  turned  down 
the  rocky  road  leading  to  the  fisherman's  cottage.  A  high 
wind  was  surging  over  the  sea,  and  rendering  it  necessary 
for  him  to  clutch  his  hat  with  both  hands  to  prevent  its 
blowing  into  the  regions  of  space  ;  the  sky  was  of  a  leaden 
gray,  with  bars  of  hard  red  in  the  west,  and  the  waves  can- 
nonaded the  shore  with  a  roar  like  thunder.  No  one  was 
abroad.  At  the  village,  all  were  at  supper.  But  Mr.  Sweet 
looked  anxiously  for  a  lithe,  girlish  figure,  bounding  from 
rock  to  rock  as  if  treading  on  air — a  sight  he  very  often 
saw  when  traveling  down  that  road.  No  such  figure  was 
flying  along,  however,  in  the  high  gale  this  evening  ;  and 
while  he  watched  for  it  over  the  cliffs  and  sand-hills,  his  foot 
stumbled  against  something  lying  in  the  sand,  with  its  head 
pillowed  in  the  midst  of  the  reeds  and  rushes.  The  recum- 
bent figure  instantly  sprung  erect,  with  angry  exclamations, 
and  he  saw  the  sunburnt  face  of  her  he  was  looking  for. 
Something  had  evidently  gone  wrong,  for  the  bright  face 
looked  dark  and  sullen  ;  and  she  began  instantly  and  with 
asperity,  the  attack  : 

"  What  are  you  about,  Mr.  Sweet,  tramping  on  people 
with  your  great  feet,  as  if  they  were  made  of  cast-iron  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Miss  Barbara,  I  beg  a  thousand  pardons  !  I 
really  never  saw  you."  • 

"  Oh  1  you  didn't  i  You're  going  blind,  I  suppose  I  But 
it's  alwai's  the  way  1  I  never  go  anywhere  for  peace  but  you 
or  somebody  else  is  sure  to  come  bothering  1  "  . 

With  which  Barbara  sat  upright,  a  very  cross  scowl  dis- 
figuring her  pretty  face,  and  gathering  up  the  profusion  of 
her  brown  hair,  tangled  among  the  reeds  and  thistles,  began 
pushing  it  away  under  her  gipsy  hat.  Mr.  Sw^eet  took  a 
bunch  of  luscious  grapes  out  of  his  pocket,  and  laid  them, 
by  way  of  a  peace-offering,  in  her  lap. 

"What's  the  matter  with  my  little  Barbara?  Something 
is  wrong."  ■ 


t 

r 


H 


: 


96         THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTILE  CLIFEE 

"No,  there  isn't  1"  said  Barbara,  snappishly,  and 
without  condescending  to  notice  the  grapes.  "  Nothing 
wrong ! " 

*'  What  have  you  been  about  all  day  ?  "    - 

"  Nothing !  " 

'*  Your  general  occupation,  I  believe  !  Has  the  dear  old 
lady  been  scolding  ?  " 

"  No  !     And  I  shouldn't  care  if  she  had !  " 

"  Have  you  been  to  supper  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  lying  here  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  wish  you  wouldn't  torment  me  with 
questions." 

Mr.  Sweet  laughed,  but  he  went  on  perseveringly,  deter- 
mined to  get  at  the  bottom  of  Barbara's  fit  of  ill-humor. 

"  Were  you  in  Cliftonlea  this  afternoon  ?  " 

The  right  spring  was  touched — Barbara  sprung  up  with 
flashing  eyes. 

"  Yes,  I  was  in  Cliftonlea,  and  I'll  never  go  there  again ! 
There  was  everybody  making  such  fools  of  themselves  over 
that  little  pink-and-white  wax-doll  from  France,  just  as  if 
she  were  a  queen  I  She  and  that  cousin  of  hers — that  tall 
fellow  they  call  Tom  Shirley — were  riding  through  the  town  ; 
she  on  her  white  pony,  with  her  blue  riding-habit,  and  black 
hat,  yellow  curls,  and  baby  face,  and  everybody  running  out 
to  see  them,  and  the  women  dropping  curtsies,  and  the  men 
taking  off  their  hats  as  they  passed.  Bah  1  it  was  enough 
to  make  one  sick  I  " 

Mr.  Sweet  suppressed  a  whistle  and  a  laugh.  Envy,  and 
jealousy,  and  pride,  as  usual,  were  at  the  bottom  of  Miss 
Barbara's  ill-temper,  for  the  humble  fisherman's  girl  had 
within  her  a  consuming  fire — the  fire  of  a  fierce  and  indom- 
itable pride.  He  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  and  looked 
at  her  passionate  face  with  a  smile. 

"  They  are  right,  my  dear  !  She  is  the  richest  of  heir- 
esses, and  the  Princess  of  Sussex  1  What  would  you  give  to 
change  places  with  her,  Barbara  ? " 

"  Don't  ask  me  what  I  would  give  I  '*  said  Barbara,  fiercely. 
**  I  would  give  my  life,  my  soul,  if  I  could  sell  it,  as  I  have 
read  of  men  doing  ;  but  it's  no  use  talking  ;  I  am  nothing 
but  a  miserable  pauper,  and  always  shall  be."         " 


THE  FIRST  TIME. 


97 


The  lawyer  was  habitually  calm,  and  had  wonderful  self- 
possession  ;  but  now  his  yellow  face  actually  flushed,  his 
small  eyes  kindled,  and  the  smile  on  his  face  was  like  the 
gleam  of  a  dagger. 

'*  No,  Barbara  !  "  he  cried,  almost  hissing  the  words  be- 
tween his  shut  teeth  ;  "  a  time  will  come  when  you  will  hold 
your  head  a  thousand  times  higher  than  that  yellow-haired 
upstart  I  Trust  to  me,  Barbara,  and  you  shall  be  a  lady 
3^et." 

He  turned  away,  humming  as  he  went,  "  There's  a  good 
time  coming,  .wait  a  little  longer."  And  walking  much 
faster  than  was  his  decorous  wont,  he  passed  the  cottage 
and  entered  the  park-gates,  evidently  on  his  way  to  the 
castle. 

Barbara  looked  after  him  for  a  moment  a  little  surprised ; 
and  then  becoming  aware  that  the  night  was  falling,  the  sea 
raising,  and  the  wind  raging,  darted  along  the  rocks,  and 
watched,  with  a  sort  of  gloomy  pleasure,  the  wild  waves 
dashing  themselves  frantically  along  their  dark  sides. 

"  What  a  night  it  will  be,  and  how  the  minute-guns  will 
sound  before  morning  1  "  she  said,  speaking  to  herself  and 
the  elements.  "  And  how  the  surf  will  boil  in  the  Demon's 
Tower,  when  the  tide  rises  1  I  will  go  and  have  a  look  be- 
fore I  go  in." 

Over  the  rocks  she  flew,  her  hands  on  her  sides  ;  her 
long  hair  and  short  dress  streaming  in  the  gale  ;  her  eyes 
and  cheeks  kindling  with  excitement  at  the  wild  scene  and 
hour.  The  Demon's  Tower  was  much  more  easily  scaled 
from  without  than  within,  and  the  little  tight-rope  dancer 
could  almost  tread  on  air. 

So  she  fiew  up  the  steep  sides,  hand  over  hand,  swiftly  as 
a  sailor  climbs  the  rigging,  and  reached  the  top,  breathless 
and  flushed.  Pushing  away  the  hair  that  the  wind  was 
blowing  into  her  eyes,  she  looked  down,  expecting  to  hear 
nothing  but  the  echo  of  the  blast,  and  see  the  spray  fly  in 
showers,  when,  to  her  boundless  astonishment,  she  heard 
instead  a  sharp  cry,  and  saw  two  human  figures  kneeling 
on  the  stone  floor,  and  a  third  falling  back  trom  the  side 
with  a  crash. 

Barbara  was,  for  a  moment,  mute  with  amazement  ;  the 
next,  she  had  comprehended  the  whole  thing  instinctively, 


H 

h 


98         THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASI.TE  CLIFFE. 

and  found  her  voice.  Leaning  over  the  dizzy  height,  she 
shouted  at  the  top  of  her  clear  lungs : 

"  Hallo  1  "  ' 

The  voice,  clear  as  a  bugle-blast,  reached  the  ears  of  one 
of  the  kneeling  figures.  It  was  Vivia,  and  she  looked  up  to 
see  a  weird  face,  with  streaming  hair  and  dark  eyes,  looking 
down  at  her,  in  the  ghastly  evening  light. 

"  Hallo  1 "  repeated  Barbara,  leaning  further  over. 
"  What  in  the  world  are  you  doing  down  there  ?  Don't  you 
know  you'll  be  drowned  ?  " 

Vivia  sprung  to  her  feet  and  held  up  her  arms  with  a 
wild  cry. 

"  Oh,  save  us  !  save  us  !  save  us !  " 

'<  Yes,  I  will  ;  just  wait  five  minutes  !  "  exclaimed  Barbara, 
who,  in  the  excitement  of  the  moment,  forgot  everything 
but  their  danger.     "  I'll  save  you  if  I  drown  for  it." 

Down  the  rocky  sides  of  the  tower  she  went  as  she  had 
never  gone  before,  bruising  her  hands  till  they  bled,  with- 
out feeling  the  pain.  Over  the  craggy  peak,  like  an  arrow 
from  a  bow,  and  down  to  a  small  sheltered  cove  between 
two  projecting  cliffs,  where  her  little  black  and  red  boat, 
with  its  oars  within  it,  lay  safely  moored. 

In  an  instant  the  boat  was  untied,  Barbara  leaped  in, 
and  shoved  off,  seated  herself  in  the  thwart  and  took  the 
oars.  It  was  a  task  of  no  slight  danger,  for  outside  the 
little  cove  the  waves  ran  high  ;  but  Barbara  had  never 
thought  of  danger — never  thought  of  anything,  but  that 
three  persons  were  drowning  within  the  Demon's  <;!ave. 

The  little  skiff  rode  the  waves  like  a  cockleshell  ;  and 
the  girl,  as  she  bent  the  oars,  had  to  stoop  her  head  low 
to  avoid  the  spray  being  dashed  in  her  face.  The  eve- 
ning, too,  was  rapidly  darkening  ;  the  fierce  bars  of  red  had 
died  out  in  the  ghastly  sky,  and  great  drops  of  rain  began 
splashing  on  the  angry  and  heaving  sea.  The  tide  had 
risen  so  quickly  that  the  distance  to  the  cavern  was  an 
ominous  length,  and  Barbara  had  never  been  in  such  weather 
before,  but  still  the  brave  girl  kept  on  undismayed,  and 
reached  it  at  last,  just  as  the  waves  were  beginning  to  wash 
the  stone  floor.  The  boat  shot  on  through  the  black  arch, 
stopping  beside  the  prostrate  figure  of  Tom,  and  their 
rescuer  sprung  out,  striving  to  recognise  them  in  the  gloom. 


THK  FIRST  TIMK. 


i.9 


"  Is  he  dead  ? "  v/as  her  first  question,  looking  down  at 
the  recumbent  figure. 

"  Not^quite  I  "  said  Tom,  feebly,  but  with  strength  enough 
in  his  voice  to  put  the  matter  beyond  all  doubt.  "  Who 
are  you  ?  " 

"  Barbara  Black.     Who  are  you  ? " 

"  Tom  Shirley — what's  left  of  me !  Help  those  two  into 
the  boat,  and  then  I'll  try  to  follow  them  up  before  we  all 
drown  here." 

"  In  with  you,  then  I  "  cried  Barbara. 

And  Margaret  at  once  obeyed,  but  Vivia  held  back. 

"  No,  not  until  you  get  in  first,  Tom  I  Help  me  to  raise 
him,  please.     I  am  afraid  he  is  badly  hurt  1  '* 

Barbara  obeyed,  and  with  much  trouble  and  more  than 
one  involuntary  groan  from  Tom,  the  feat  was  accomplished, 
and  he  was  safely  lying  in  the  bottom.  Then  the  two  girls 
followed  him,  and  soon  the  little  black  and  red  boat  was 
tossing  over  the  surges,  guided  through  the  deepening  dark- 
ness by  Barbara's  elastic  arms. 

But  the  task  was  a  hard  one ;  more  than  once  Margaret's 
shrieks  of  terror  had  rung  out  on  the  wind ;  and  more  than 
once  Barbara's  brave  heart  had  grown  chill  with  fear  ;  but 
some  good  angel  guarded  the  frail  skiff,  and  it  was  moored 
safely  in  its  own  little  cove  at  last.  Not,  however,  until 
night  had  fallen  in  the  very  blackness  of  darkness,  and  the 
rain  was  sweeping  over  the  sea  in  drenching  torrents.  Bar- 
bara sprung  out  and  secured  her  boat  as  it  had  been  be- 
fore. 

"  Now,  then,  we  are  all  safe  at  last !  "  she  cried.  "  And 
as  he  can't  walk,  you  two  must  stay  with  him  until  I  come 
back  with  help.     Don't  be  afraid.     I  won't  be  gone  long." 

She  was  not  long  gone,  certainly.  Fifteen  minutes  had 
not  elapsed  until  she  was  back  with  her  father  and  another 
fisherman  she  had  met  on  the  way.  But  every  second  had 
seemed  an  hour  to  the  three  cowering  in  the  boat,  with  the 
rain  beating  pitilessly  on  their  heads.  Barbara  carried  a 
dark-lantern  ;  and,  by  its  light,  the  two  men  lifted  Tom  and 
bore  him  between  them  toward  the  cottage,  while  Barbara 
went  slowly  before,  carrying  the  lantern,  and  with  Vivia  and 
Margaret  each  clinging  to  an  arm. 

A  I  right  wood-fire  was   blazing   on  the   cottage  hearth 


11 


loo        THE  HKIRKSS  OF  CASTLE  CUFFE. 

when  they  entered  ;  for  though  the  month  was  September, 
Judith's  bones  were  old  and  chill,  and  Judith  sat  crouching 
over  it  now,  while  she  waited  for  their  coming.  The  drip- 
ping procession  entered,  and  Vivia  thought  it  the  plftasantest 
thing  she  had  ever  seen,  even  at  Castle  Cliffe. 

A  wooden  settle  stood  before  it — Tom  was  placed  there- 
on, and  Margaret  dropped  down  beside  it,  exhausted  and 
panting  ;  and  Vivia  and  Barbara  stood  opposite  and  looked 
at  each  other  across  the  hearth.  Vivia's  rich  silk  dress 
hung  dripping  and  clammy  around  her ;  and  her  long  -.vhite 
curls  were  drenched  with  rain  and  sea-spray,  Barbara  rec- 
ognized her  instantly,  and  so  did  the  fisherman  who  had 
helped  her  father  to  carry  Tom.     ' 

"  It  is  Miss  Shirley  and  Master  Tom  1 "  he  cried  out. 
"  Oh,  whatever  will  my  lady  say  ?  " 

Old  Judith  started  up  with  a  shrill  scream,  and  darted 
forward. 

"  Miss  Shirley,  the  heiress  I     Which  of  them  is  her  ?  " 

"  I  am,"  said  Vivia,  turning  her  clear  blue  eyes  on  the 
wrinkled  face  with  the  simple  dignity  natural  to  her  ;  "  and 
you  must  have  word  sent  to  the  castle  immediately." 

Old  Judith,  shaking  like  one  in  an  ague  fit,  and  looking 
from  one  to  the  other,  stood  grasping  the  back  of  the  settle 
for  support.  There  they  were,  facing  each  other  for  the 
first  time,  and  neither  dreaming  how  darkly  their  destinies 
were  to  be  interlinked — neither  the  dark-browed  dancing 
girl,  nor  the  sunny-haired  heiress  of  Castle  Cliffe. 


THE  NUN'S  GRAVE. 


loi 


•  > 


.»• " 


CHAPTER  Xn. 


THE  nun's  grave. 


"  Some  one  must  go  to  the  castle,"  repeated  Vivia,  a  little 
imperiously.  "  Papa  and  grandmamma  will  be  anxious,  and 
Tom's  hurt  must  be  attended  to  immediately." 

Old  Judith,  like  a  modern  Gorgon,  stood  staring  at  this 
figure,  her  bleared  eyes  riveted  immovably  on  her  face,  and 
shaking  like  a  withered  aspen  as  she  clutched  the  settle. 
Victoria  stood  like  a  little  queen  looking  down  on  her  sub- 
jects ;  her  bright  silk  dress  hanging  dripping  around  her, 
and  her  long  hair  uncurled,  soaking  with  sea-spray,  and  fall- 
ing in  drenched  masses  over  her  shoulders.  Barbara,  \yho 
had  been  watching  her,  seemingly  as  much  fascinated  as 
her  grandmother,  started  impetuously  up. 

"I'll  go,  grandmother.  I  can  run  fast,  and  I  won't  be  ten 
minutes." 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  interposed  Mr.  Black,  in 
his  customary  gruff  tones.  "  You're  a  pretty  looking  object 
to  go  anywhere,  wet  as  a  water-dog  1  Let  the  young  lady 
go  herself.     She  knows  the  way  better  than  you." 

Victoria  turned  her  blue  eyes  flashing  haughty  fire  upon 
the  surly  speaker ;  but  without  paying  the  slightest  attention- 
to  him,  Barbara  seized  a  shawl,   and,  throwing  it  over  her 
head,  rushed  into  the  wild,  wet  night. 

The  storm  had  now  broken  in  all  its  fury.  The  darkness 
was  almost  palpable.  The  raiii  swept  wildly  in  the  face  of 
the  blast  over  the  sea,  and  the  thunder  of  the  waves  against 
the  shore,  and  the  lamentable  wail  of  the  wind  united  in  a 
grand  diapason  of  their  own.  But  the  fleetfooted  dancing- 
girl  heeded  neither  the  wind  that  seemed  threatening  to 
catch  up  her  light  form  and  whirl  it  into  the  regions  of  eter- 
nal space,  nor  the  rushing  rain  that  beat  in  her  face  and 


I 

i 


1 02 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CUFFE. 


blinded  her,  as  she  leaped  at  random  over  the  slimy  rocks. 
More  by  instinct  than  eyesight,  she  found  her  way  to  the 
park-gates — they  were  closed  and  bolted ;  but  that  fact  was 
a  mere  trifle  to  her.  She  clambered  up  the  wall  like  a  cat, 
and  dropped,  catlike,  on  her  feet  among  the  wet  shrubbery 
within.  There  was  no  finding  a  path  in  the  darkness ;  but 
sh*^  ran  headlong  among  the  trees,  slipping,  and  falling,  and 
rising,  only  to  slip,  and  fall,  and  rise  again,  until,  at  last,  as 
she  was  stopping  exhausted  and  in  despair,  thinking  she  had 
lost  her  way  in  the  thickly-wooded  plantation,  she  saw  a 
number  of  twinkling  lights  flashing  in  and  out,  like  fire-flies 
in  the  darkness,  and  heard  the  echo  of  distant  shouts.  Bar- 
bara comprehended  instantly  that  it  was  the  servants  out 
with  lanterns  in  search  of  the  missing  trio ;  and  starting  up, 
she  flew  on  again  at  break-neck  speed,  until  her  rapid  career 
was  brought  to  a  close  by  her  running  with  a  shock  against 
two  persons  advancing  in  an  opposite  direction.  The  im- 
petus nearly  sent  her  head  over  heels ;  but  recovering  her 
center  of  gravity  with  an  effort,  Barbara  clutched  the 
branches  of  a  tree,  and  paused  to  recover  the  breath  that 
had  been  nearly  knocked  out  of  her  by  the  concussion. 

"  Whom  have  we  here  ?  "  said  the  voice  of  one  of  the  men, 
coming  to  a  halt ;  "  is  it  a  water-witch,  or  a  kelpi,  or  a  mer- 
maid, or " 

"  Why,  it's  little  Barbara !  "  interrupted  the  other,  holding 
up  the  lantern  he  carried.  "  Little  Barbara  Black,  actually  I 
My  dear  child,  how  in  the  world  came  you  to  be  out  and  up 
here  on  such  a  night  ?  " 

Barbara  looked  at  the  two  speakers  and  recognized  in  the 
first  Colonel  Shirley,  and  in  the  second  Mr.  Sweet,  who  held 
the  lantern  close  to  her  face,  and  gazed  at  her  in  consterna- 
tion. 

"  They're  saved,  Mr.  Sweet ;  they're  all  saved  1  You  need 
not  look  for  them  any  more,  for  they're  down  at  our  cottage, 
and  I've  come  up  here  to  bring  the  news  I  " 

"  Saved  1     How — where — what  do  you  mean,  Barbara?  " 

"Oh,  they  were  in  the  Demon's  Tower — went  there  at  low 
water ;  and  the  tide  rose  and  they  couldn't  get  out ;  and  so 
I  took  my  boat  and  rowed  them  ashore,  and  he  has  hurt 
himself,  and  they're  all  down  at  our  house,  waiting  for  some- 
body to  come  1 " 


THE  NUN'S  GRAVE. 


103 


Colonel  Shirley  laughed,  though,  a  little  dismayed  withal, 
at  this  very  intelligent  explanation. 

•'  Who  is  this  little  sea-goddess,  Sweet,  and  where  does 
she  come  from  ?  **  he  asked. 

"  From  Lower  Cliffe,  colonel ;  her  father  is  a  fisherman 
there,  and  I  understand  the  whole  matter  now  1  " 

"  Then  we  must  go  down  to  Lower  Cliffe  immediately. 
What  could  have  brought  them  to  the  Demon's  Tower? 
But,  of  course,  it's  some  of  Master  Tom's  handiwork.  Wait 
one  moment,  Sweet,  while  I  send  word  to  Lady^Agres,  and 
tell  the  rest  to  give  over  the  search.  What  an  escape  they 
must  have  had  if  they  were  caught  by  the  tide  in  the 
Demon's  Tower  I  " 

"  And,  colonel,  you  had  better  give  orders  to  have  a  con- 
veyance of  some  sort  follow  us  to  the  vfllage.  The  young 
ladies  cannot  venture  out  in  such  wind  and  rain ;  and,  if  I 
understood  our  little  messenger  aright,  some  one  is  hurt. 
Barbara,  my  dear  child,  how  could  they  have  the  heart  to 
send  you  out  in  such  weather  ?  " 

"  They  didn't  send  me — I  came  1 '.'  said  Barbara,  com- 
posedly, as  the  colonel  disappeared  for  a  moment  in  the 
darkness.  "  Father  wanted  me  not  to  come,  but  I  don't 
mind  the  weather.  I'll  go  home  now,  and  you  can  show  the 
gentleman  the  way  yourself  f  " 

■  "  No,  no ;  I  cannot  have  my  little  Barbara  risking  her 
neck  in  that  fashion.  Here  comes  Colonel  Shirley.  So 
give  me  your  hand,  Barbara,  and  I  will  show  you  the  way 
by  the  light  of  my  lantern.'* 

But  Miss  Barbara,  with  a  little  disdainful  astonishment 
even  at  the  offer,  declined  it,  and  ran  along  in  the  pelting 
rain,  answering  all  the  colonel's  profuse  questions,  wntil  the 
whole  facts  of  the  case  were  gained. 

"  Very  rash  of  Mr.  Tom — very  rash,  indeed  I  **  remarked 
Mr.  Sweet,  at  the  conclusion ;  "  and  I  hope  his  narrow  escape 
and  a  broken  heAd  will  be  a  lesson  to  him  for  the  rest  of  his 
life.     Here  we  are,  colonel — -this  is  the  house." 

The  ruddy  glow  of  the  firelight  was  sliining  still,  a  cheer- 
ful beacon,  from  the  small  windows,  to  all  storm-beaten  way- 
farers without.  Barbara  opened  the  door  and  bounded  in, 
shaking  the  water  from  her  soaking  garments  as  she  fan, 
followed  by  the  lawyer  and  the  Indian  officer.     The  wood 


1 


I04       THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CLIFFK. 

fire  blazed  still  on  the  hearth ;  Tom  lay  on  the  settle  before 
it ;  Margaret  and  Vivia  were  steaming  away  in  front  of  the 
blaze,  and  Mr.  Peter  Black  sat  in  the  chimney-corner  sulky 
and  sleepy.  But  old  Judith's  chair  opposite  was  vacant,  and 
old  Judith  herself  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  Vivia  started 
up,  as  they  entered,  with  a  cry  of  joy,  and  sprung  into  her 
father's  arms. 

"  Oh,  papa,  I  am  so  glad  you've  come  !  Oh,  papa,  I 
thought  I  was  never  going  to  see  you  again  !  " 

"  My  darling  !  And  to  think  of  your  being  in  such  dan- 
ger and  I  not  know  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  papa,  it  was  dreadful  I  and  we  would  all  have  been 
drowned,  only  for  that  girl  1  " 

"  She  is  a  second  Grace  Darling,  that  brave  little  girl,  and 
you  and  I  can  never  repay  her  for  to-night's  work,  my  Vivia  I 
But  this  rash  boy  Tom — I  hope  the  poor  fellow  has  not  paid 
too  dearly  for  his  visit  to  the  Demon's  Tower." 

*'  He  is  not  seriously  hurt,  papa,  but  his  face  is  bruised, 
and  he  says  he  thinks  one  of  his  arms  is  broken." 

*'  It  is  all  right  with  Mr.  Tom,  colonel,"  said  Mr.  Sweet, 
who  had  been  examining  Tom's  wounds,  looking  up  cheerily. 
*'  One  arm  is  broken,  and  there  are  a  few  contusions  on  his 
head-piece,  but  he  will  be  over  them  all  before  he  is  twice 
married  1     Ah  1  there  comes  the  carriage,  now  1 " 

"  And  how  is  it  with  little  Maggie  ?  "  Laid  the  colonel,  pat- 
ting her  on  the  head,  with  a  ^smile.  "  Well,  Tom,  my  boy, 
thi§  is  a  pretty  evening's  work  of  yours — isn't  it  1  " 

Tom  looked  up  into  the  handsome  face  bending  over  him, 
and,  despite  his  pallor,  had  the  grace  to  blush. 

"  I  am  sorry,  with  all  my  heart ;  and  I  wish  I  had  broken 
my  neck  instead  of  my  arm — it  would  only  have  served  me 
right  1  " 

"  Very  true  I  but  still,  as  it  wouldn't  have  helped  matters 
much,  perhaps  it's  as  well  as  it  is.  Do  you  think  you  can 
walk  to  the  carriage  ?  " 

Tom  rose  with  some  difficulty,  for  the  wounds  on  his  head 
made  him  sick  and  giddy,  and  leaning  heavily  on  Mr.  Sweet's 
arm,  managed  to  reach  the  door. 

The  colonel  looked  at  Mr.  Black,  who  still  maintained  his 
seat,  despite  the  presence  of  his  distinguished  visitors,  and 
never  turned  his  gloomy  eyes  from  the  dancing  blaze. 


I 


)re 
the 
Iky 
tnd 
ted 
ler 


THE  NUN'S  GRAVE. 


105 


"  Come  away,  papa,"  whispered  Vivia,  shrinking  away 
with  an  expression  of  repulsion  from  the  man  in  the  chimney- 
corner.     "  I  don't  like  that  man  !  " 

Low  as  the  words  were  spoken,  they  reached  the  man  in 
question,  who  looked  up  at  her  with  his  customary  savage 
scowl. 

"  I  haven't  done  nothing  to  you,  yonng  lady,  that  I  knows 
on ;  and  if  you  don't  like  me  or  my  house — which  neither  is 
much  to  look  at,  Lord  knows ! — the  best  thing  you  can  do  is 
to  go  back  to  your  fine  castle,  and  not  come  here  any 
more ! " 

Colonel  Shirley  turned  the  light  of  his  dark  bright  eyes 
full  on  the  speaker,  who  quailed  under  it,  and  sunk  down  in 
his  seat  like  the  coward  he  was. 

"My  good  fellow,  there  is  no  necessity  to  make  yourself 
disagreeable.  The  young  lady  is  not  likely  to  trouble  you 
again,  if  she  can  help  it.  Meantime,  perhaps  this  will  repay 
you  for  any  inconvenience  you  may  have  been  put  to  t> 
night.  And  as  for  this  little  girl — ^your  daughter,  I  presume 
— we  will  try  if  we  cannot  find  some  better  way  of  recom- 
pensing her  in  part,  at  least — for  the  invaluable  service  she 
has  rendered." 

He  threw  his  purse  to  the  fisherman  as  he  would  have 
thrown  a  bone  to  a  dog ;  and  turned,  an  instant  after,  with 
his  own  bright  smile,  to  the  fisherman's  daughter.  She 
stood  leaning  against  the  mantel,  the  firelight  shining  in  her 
splendid  eyes,  gilding  her  crimson  cheeks,  and  sending 
spears  of  light  in  and  out  through  the  tangled  waves  of  her 
wet  brown  hair,  something  in  the  attitude,  in  the  dark,  beau- 
tiful face,  in  the  luminous  splendor  of  the  large  eyes  recalled 
vividly  to  the  colonel  some  dream  of  the  past — something 
seen  before — seen  and  lost  forever.  But  the  wistful,  earnest 
look  vanished  as  he  turned  to  her,  and  with  it  the  momen- 
tary resemblance,  as  it  struck  him,  as  a  lance  strikes  on  a 
seared  wound.  , 

"  Ask  her  to  come  to  the  castle  to-morrow,  papa,"  again 
whispered  Vivia.     "  I  like  that  girl  so  much  I  " 

"  So  you  should,  my  dear.  She  has  saved  your  life. 
Barbara — your  name  is  Barbara  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir."  '     -^ 

"  My  little  girl  wants  you  to  come  to  visit  her  to-morrow, 


io6        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTILE  CI.IEFE. 


't  I 


!^ 


V 


H  I 


t 


in 


and  I  second  her  wish.     Do  you  think  you  can  find  your 
way  through  the  park-gates  again,  Ba'-bara  ? " 

The  smile  on  the  Indian  officer  s  face  was  infectious. 
Barbara  smiled  brightly  back  an  answer  ;  and  albeit  Barbara's 
smiles  were  few  and  far  between,  they  were  as  beautiful  as 
rare. 

'*  Yes,  sir  ;  if  you  wish  it." 

"  I  never  wished  for  anything  more  ;  and  I  shall  be  glad 
to  see  you  there  every  day  for  the  future.  Genevieve,  bid 
Barbara  good  night  and  come." 

Vivia  held  out  her  lily-leaf  of  a  hand,  and  Barbara  just 
touched  it  with  her  brown  fingers. 

'*  Don't  forget.  I  shall  be  waiting  for  you  at  the  park- 
gates.     Goodnight." 

"  I  shall    not  forget.     Good  night." 

The  tall,  gallant,  soldier-like  form,  and  the  little  vision  in 
shot-silk  and  yellow-hair,  went  out  into  the  stormy  night ; 
and  Barbara  went  to  her  room,  but  for  once  in  her  life  not 
to  sleep. 

Her  book  of  life  had  opened  on  a  new  page  that  day. 
The  vague  yearnings  that  had  grown  wild,  like  rank  weeds, 
all  her  life,  in  her  heart,  had  struck  deeper  root,  and  sprung 
up  strong  and  tall,  to  poison  her  whole  future  life. 

It  was  sometime  in  the  afternoon  of  the  following  day, 
when  Barbara  walked  slowly — something  unusual  for  her — 
up  the  rough  road  to  the  park-gates.  As  she  passed  through 
and  went  on  under  the  shadows  of  some  giant  pines,  a  bright 
httle  figure  came  flying  down  the  avenue  to  meet  her. 

"  Oh  Barbara  1  " 

And  two  little  hands  clasped  hers  with  childish  impet- 
uosity. 

"  Oh  Barbara  1  I  was  so  afraid  you  would  not  come." 

**  I  couldn't  come  any  sooner.  I  was  in  Cliftonlea  all 
morning.  Oh,  what  great  trees  those  are  here,  and  what  a 
queer  eld  cross  that  is  striding  up  there  among  them." 

"  That's  the  ruins  of  the  convent  that  used  to  be  here 
long  ago — hundreds  and  hundreds  of  years  ago — when  there 
were  convents  and  monasteries  all  through  England  ;  and  the 
last  abbess  was  murdered  there.     Tom  told  me  all  about  it 


the  other  day,  and  showed  me  her  grave. 
it  to  you  now." 


Come :  I'll  show 


THE  NUN'S  GRAVE. 


107 


The  two  children,  the  high-born  heiress  in  rose  silk  and 
the  daintiest  of  little  French  hats,  and  the  low-bred  dancing- 
girl  in  her  plain  merino  and  cotton  sunbonnet,  strayed  away 
together,  chattering  like  magpies,  among  the  gloomy  elms 
and  yews,  down  to  the  Nmi's  Grave.  With  the  tall  planta- 
tion of  elms  and  oaks  belting  it  around  on  every  side,  and 
the  thickly-interlacing  branches  of  yew  overhead,  the  place 
was  dark  at  all  times,  and  a  solemn  hush  rested  ever  around 
it.  The  very  birds  seemed  to  cease  their  songs  in  the 
gloomy  spot,  and  the  dead  nun,  ifter  the  lapse  of  hundreds 
of  years,  had  her  lonely  grave  as  undisturbed,  as  when*  she 
had  first  been  placed  there  with  the  stake  through  her 
heart. 

"  What  a  lonesome  place !  "  said  Barbara,  under  her 
breath,  as  the  two  stood  looking,  awestruck,  at  the  grave. 
"  When  I  die,  I  should  like  to  be  buried  here  1  " 

Vivia,  mute  with  the  solemn  feeling  one  always  has  when 
near  the  dead,  did  not  answer,  but  stood  looking  down  af 
the  quiet  grave,  and  the  black  marble  slab  above  it. 

The  silence  was  broken  in  a  blood-chilling  manner  enough. 

"  Barbara  1  " 

Both  children  recoiled  with  horror,  for  the  voice  came 
from  the  grave  at  their  feet.  Clear,  and  sweet,  and  low, 
but  distinct,  and  unmistakably  from  the  grave  I 

"Victoria!" 

The  voice  again — the  same  low,  sweet,  clear  voice  from 
beneath  their  feet  1 

The  faces  of  both  listeners  turned  white  with  fear. 

The  voice  from  the  grave  came  up  on  the  still  summer 
air  solem.n  and  sweet,  once  more ! 

**  From  death,  one  has  been  saved  by  the  other  ;  and  in 
the  days  to  come,  one  shall  perish  through  the  other.  Bar- 
bara, be  warned !     Victoria,  beware  i  " 

It  ceased.  A  blackbird  perched  on  an  overhanging 
branch,  set  up  its  chirping  song,  and  the  voice  of  Made- 
moiselle Jeannette  was  heard  in  the  distance,  crying  out  for 
Miss  Vivia.  It  broke  the  i  pell  of  terror,  and  both  children 
fled  from  the  spot. 

"  Oh  Barbara  I  What  was  that  ?  "  cried  Vivia,  her  very 
lips  white  with  fear. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Barbara,  trying  to  hide  her  own 


io8       THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CUFFK.  • 

terror.  "  It  came  from  the  grave.  It  couldn't  be  the  dead 
nun  could  it  ?     Is  that  place  haunted  ?  " 

"  No — yes — I  don't  know  I  I  think  Tom  said  there  was 
a  ghost  seen  there.  Don't  tell  Jeannette  ;  she  will  only 
laugh  at  us.  But  I  will  never  go  there  as  long  as  I 
live  I " 

"  What  made  you  stay  away  so  long,  Mademoiselle  Vivia  ? 
Your  grandmother  was  afraid  you  were  lost  again." 

"  Let  us  hurry,  then.  I  want  grandmamma  to  see  you, 
Barbara  ;  so  make  haste." 

The  great  hall-door  of  the  old  mansion  was  wide  open  as 
they  came  near,  and  Lady  Agnes  herself  stood  in  the  hall, 
talking  to  the  colonel  and  Mr.  Sweet  ;  Vivia  ran  breath- 
lessly in,  followed  by  Barbara,  who  glanced  around  the 
adorned,  and  carved,  and  pictured  hall,  and  up  the  sweep- 
ing staircase,  with  its  gilded  "balustrade,  in  grand,  careless 
surprise. 

"  Here  is  Barbara,  grandmamma ! — here  is  Barbara  !  " 
was  Vivia's  cry,  as  she  rushed  in.  I  knew  she  would 
come." 

"  Barbara  is  the  best  and  bravest  little  girl  in  the  world !  " 
said  Lady  Agnes  glancing  curiously  at  the  bright,  fearless 
face  and  holding  out  two  jeweled  tapered  fingers.  "  I  am 
glad  to  see  Barbara  here,  and  thank  her  for  what  she  has 
done,  with  all  my  heart." 

Mr.  Sweet,  standing  near,  with  his  pleasant  smile  on  his 
face,  stepped  forward,  hat  in  hand. 

"  Good  afternoon,  my  lady.  Good  afternoon.  Miss  Vic- 
toria. Our  little  Barbara  will  have  cause  to  bless  the  day 
that  has  brought  her  such  noble  friends." 

With  a  tune  on  hh  lips,  and  the  smile  deepening  inexpli- 
cably, he  went  out  into  the  great  portico,  down  the  broad 
stone  steps  guarded  by  two  crouching  lions,  and  along  the 
great  avenue,  shading  off  the  golden  sunshine  with  its  wav- 
ing trees.  Under  one  of  them  he  paused,  with  his  hat  still 
in  his  hand,  the  sunlight  sifting  through  the  trees,  making 
his  jewelry  and  his  yellow  hair  flash  back  its  radiance,  and 
looked  around.  The  grand  old  mansion,  the  .sweeping  vista 
of  park  and  lawn,  and  terrace  and  shrubbery,  and  glade 
and  woodland,  mimic  lake  and  radiant  rose-garden,  Swiss 
farmhouse  and  ruined  convent,  all  spread  out  before  him^ 


1 


THE  NUN'S  GRAVE.  ^ 


Y...- 


109 


U, 


>> 


'A 


bathed  in  the  glory  of  the  bright  September  sun.  The  tune 
died  away,  and  the  smile  changed  to  an  exultant 
laugh. 

"  And  to  think,"  said  Mr.  Sweet,  turning  away,   "  that 
one  day  all  this  shall  be  mine  1  ** 


■is- 


.,>• 


"■'^ij 


I  I 


\ 


\>      ! 


iio        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CUFFE. 


CHAPTER    Xni. 


THE    MAY    QUEEN. 


Such  a  morning  as  that  first  of  May  was !  Had  the 
good  people  of  Cliftonlea  sent  up  an  express  order  to  the 
clerk  of  the  weather  to  manufacture  them  the  fairest  day  he 
could  possibly  turn  out,  they  could  not  have  had  a  more 
perfectly  unexceptionable  one  than  that.  Sun  and  sky 
were  so  radiantly  bright,  they  fairly  made  you  wonder  to 
think  of  them.  Ceylon's  spicy  breezes  could  not  have  been 
Vv'armer  or  spicier  than  that  blowing  over  Cliftonlea  com- 
mon. The  grass  and  the  trees  were  as  green  as,  in  many 
other  parts  of  England,  they  would  have  been  in  July.  The 
cathedral-bells  were  ringing,  until  they  threatened  to  crack 
and  go  mad  with  joy  ;  and  as  for  the  birds,  they  were  sing- 
ing at  such  a  rate,  that  they  fairly  overtopped  the  bells,  and 
had  been  hard  and  fast  at  it  since  five  o'clock.  "All  the 
town,  e/t  grande  tenue,  were  hurrying,  with  eager  antici- 
pation, toward  the  common — a  great  square,  carpeted  with 
the  greenest  possible  grass,  besprinkled  with  pink  and 
white  daisies,  and  shaded  by  tall  English  poplars — where 
the  Cliftonlea  brass  band  was  already  banging  away  at  the 
"  May  Queen."  All  business  was  suspended  ;  for  May  Day 
ha(^l  been  kept,  from  time  immemorial,  a  holiday,  and  the 
lady  of  Castle  Cliffe  always  encouraged  it,  by  ordering  her 
agents  to  furnish  a  public  dinner,  and  supper,  and  no  end 
of  ale,  on  each  anniversary. 

Then,  besides  the  feasting  and  drinking,  there  was  the 
band  and  dancing  for  the  young  people,  until  the  small 
hours,  if  they  choose. 

And  so  it  was  no  wonder  that  May  Day  was  looked  for 
months  before  it  came,  and  was  the  talk  months  afterward  ; 
and  that  numberless  matches  were  made  there,  and  that  the 


THE  MAY  QUEEN. 


lie 


May  Queen  was  the  belle  all  the  succeeding  year,  and  the 
envy  of  all  the  young  ladies  of  the  town. 

The  cathedral-bells  had  just  begun  t©  chime  forth  the 
national  anthem  ;  the  crowd  of  townfolk  kept  pouring  in  a 
long  stream  through  High-street  toward  the  common,  when 
a  slight  sensation  was  created  by  the  appearance  of  two 
young  men,  to  whom  the  women  courtesied  and  the  men 
took  off  their  hats.  Both  bore  the  unmistakable  stamp  of 
gentlemen,  and  there  was  an  indefinable  something — an  in- 
describable air — about  them,  that  told  plainer  than  words  they 
were  not  of  the  honest  burghers  among  whom  they  walked. 
One  of  these,  upon  whom  the  cares  of  life  and  a  green 
shooting-jacket  appeared  to  sit  easily,  was  remarkable  for 
his  stature — being,  like  Saul,  the  son  of  Kish,  above  the 
heads  of  his  fellow  men — with  the  proportions  of  a  grena- 
dier, and  the  thews  and  sinews  of  an  athlete.  On  an  exu- 
berant crop  of  short,  crisp,  black  curls,  jauntily  sat  a  blue 
Scotch  bonnet,  with  a  tall  feather.  On  the  Herculean  form 
was  the  green  hunting- jacket,  tightened  round  the  waist 
with  a  leather  belt,  and  to  his  knees  came  a  pair  of  tall 
Wellington  boots.  This  off.hand  style  of  costume  suited 
the  wearer  to  perfection,  which  is  as  good  as  saying  his 
figure  was  admirable  ;  and  suited,  too,  the  laughing  black 
eyes  and  dashing  air  generally.  A  mustache,  thick  and 
black,  became  well  the  sunburnt  and  not  very  handsome 
face  ;  and  he  held  his  head  up,  and  talked  and  laughed  in 
a  voice  sonorous  and  clear,  not  to  say  loud  as  a  bugle- 
blast. 

The  young  giant's  companion  was  not  at  all  like  him — 
nothing  near  so  tall,  though  still  somewhat  above  the  usual 
height,  and  much  more  slender  of  figure — but  then  he  had 
such  a  figure  1  One  of  those  masculine  faces,  to  which  the 
adjective  beautiful  can  be  applied,  and  yet  remain  intensely 
masculine.  A  light  summer  straw-hat  sat  on  the  fair  brown 
hair,  and  shaded  the  broad,  pale  brow — the  dreamy  brow 
of  a  poet  or  a  painter — large  blue  eyes,  so  darkly  blue  that 
at  first  you  would  be  apt  to  mistake  them  for  black,  shaded 
as  they  were  by  girl-like,  long,  sweeping  lashes — wonderful 
eyes,  in  whose  clear,  calm  depths  spoke  a  deathless  energy, 
fiery  passion,  amid  all  their  calm,  and  a  fascination  that 
his  twenty-four  years  of  life  had  proved  to  ihc'r  owner,  few 


112       THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CUFFE. 


li    i 


could  ever  resist.  The  clear,  pale  complexion,  the  straight, 
delicate  features,  somewhat  set  and  haugKiy  in  repose,  were 
a  peculiarity  of  his  race,  and  known  to  many  in  London 
and  Sussex  as  the  "  Cliffe  face."  His  dress  was  the  most 
faultless  of  morning  costumes,  and  a  striking  contrast  to 
the  easy  style  of  his  companion's  with  whom  he  walked 
nrm-in-arm  ;  patting,  now  and  then,  with  the  other  hand, 
which  was  gloved,  the  head  of  a  great  Canadian  wolf-hound 
trotting  by  his  side.  Both  young  gentlemen  were  smoking  ; 
but  the  tall  wearer  of  the  green  jacket  was  carrying  his  cigar 
between  his  finger  and  thumb,  and  was  holding  forth 
volubly. 

**  Of  course  they  will  have  a  May  Queen  !  They  always 
have  had  in  Cliftonlea,  from  time  immemorial  ;  and  I 
believe  the  thing  is  mentioned  iri  Magna  Charta.  If  you 
had  not  been  such  a  heathen,  Cliffe,  roaming  all  your  life 
in  foreign  parts,  you  would  have  known  about  it  before 
this.  Ah  1  how  often  have  I  danced  on  the  green  with  the 
May  Queen,  when  I  was  a  guileless  little  shaver  in  round- 
abouts ;  and  what  pretty  little  things  those  May  Queens  were  ! 
If  you  only  keep  your  eyes  skinned  to-day,  you  will  see  some 
of  the  best-looking  girls  you  ever  saw  in  your  life."  :• 

I  don't  believe  it." 

Seeing  is  believing,  and  you  just  hold  on.  The  lasfe 
time  I  was  here,  Barbara  Black  was  the  May  Queen  ;  and^ 
what  a  girl  that  was,  to  be  sure  I  Such  eyes  ;  such  hair  ; 
such  an  ankle  ;  such  an  instep  ;  such  a  figure  ;  such  a 
face  1  Just  the  sort  of  thing  you  painting  fellows  always  go 
mad  about.  I  believe  I  was  half  in  love  with  her  at  the 
time,  if  I  don't  greatly  mistake  " 

'*  I  don't  doubt  it  in  the  least.  It's  a  way  you  have," 
said  his  companion,  whose  low,  refined  tones  contrasted 
forcibly  with  the  vigorous  voice  of  the  other.  "  How  long 
ago  is  that?  " 

"  Four  years,  precisely." 

"  Then  take  my  word  for  it,  Barbara  Black  is  homely  as 
a  hedge-fence  by  this  time.  Pretty  children  always  grow 
up  ugly,  and  Z'tc^  versa.^* 

"  Perhaps  so,"  said  the  giant  in  the  green  jacket  and 
tightening  his  belt.  "  Well,  it  may  be  true  enough  as  a 
general  rule  ;  for  I  was   uncommonly  ugly  when  a  child> 


« 


(( 


*."- 


1 


THE  MAY  QUEEN. 


»i3 


and  look  at  me  now  ?  But  I'll  swear  Barbara  is  an  excep- 
tion ;  for  she  is  the  prettiest  girl  I  ever  saw  in  my  life — ex- 
cept one.  Only  to  think,  being  four  years  absent  from  a 
place,  and  then  not  to  fin.,  it  the  least  changed  when  you 
come  back." 

"  Isn't  it  ?  I  know  so  little  of  Cliftonlea  that  its  good 
people  might  throw  their  houses  'out  of  the  windows,  with- 
out my  being  anything  the  wiser.  What  a  confounded  din 
that  band  makes  1  and  what  a  crowd  there  is  !  I  hate 
crowds !  " 

"  They'll  make  way  for  us,"  said  the  young  giant ;  and, 
true  to  his  prediction,  the  dense  mob  encircling  the  com- 
mon parted  respectfully  to  let  the  two  young  men  through. 
"  Look  there,  Cliffe,  that's  the  May-pole,  and  that  flower- 
wreathed  seat  underneath  is  the  queen's  throne,  God  bless 
her  !  See  that  long  arch  of  green  boughs  and  flowers  ; 
that's  the  way  her  majesty  will  come.  And  just  look  at 
this  living  sea  of  eager  eyes  and  faces  !  You  might  make  a 
picture  of  all  this,  Sir  Artist." 

"  And  make  my  fortune  at  the  exhibition.  It's  a  good 
notion,  and  I  may  try  it  some  time  when  I  have  time.  Who 
is  to  be  the  May  Queen  this  year  ?  " 

"  Can't  say.     There  she  comes  herself  1 "  ^.  . 

The  place  where  the  young  men  stood  was  within  the 
living  circle  around  the  boundary  of  the  common,  in  the 
center  of  which  stood  a  tall  pole,  wreathed  with  evergreens 
and  daisies,  and  surmounted  on  the  top  by  a  crown  of  arti- 
ficial flowers,  made  of  gold  and  silver  paper,  sparkling  in 
the  sunshine  like  a  golden  coronet.  From  this  pole  to  the 
opposite  gate  were  arches  of  evergreen,  wreathed  with  wild 
flowers,  and  under  this  verdant  canopy  was  the  queen's 
train  to  enter.  The  militia  band,  in  their  scarlet  and  blue 
uniforms,  stood  near  the  queen's  throne,  playing  "  Barbara 
Allen  ; "  and  the  policemen  were  stationed  here  and  there, 
to  keep  the  crowd  from  surging  in  until  the  royal  procession 
entered.  This  common,  it  may  be  said  in  parenthesis,  was 
at  the  extreme  extremity  of  the  town,  and  away  from  all 
dwellings  ;  but  there  were  two  large,  gloomy-looking  stone 
buildings  withm  a  few  yards  of  it — one  of  them  the  court- 
house, the  other  the  county  jail — as  one  of  the  young 
gentlemen  had  reason  to  know  in  after  days  to  his  cost. 


114        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI<K  CIvlFFE. 

There  was  a  murmur  of  expectation  and  a  swaying  of  tlie 
crowd  ;  tlie  band  changed  from  "  Barbara  Allen  "  to  the 
national  anthem,  and  the  expected  procession  began  to 
enter.  Two  by  two  they  came  ;  the  pretty  village-girls  all 
dressed  in  translucent  white,  blue  sashes  round  their  waists, 
and  wreaths  of  flowers  on  their  heads  ;  blonde  and  brunette, 
pale  and  rosy,  stately  and  petite — on  they  came,  two  and 
two,  scattering  flowers  as  they  went,  and  singing  "  God 
Save  the  Queen."  It  was,  indeed,  a  pretty  sight,  and  the 
artist's  splendid  eyes  kindled  as  they  looked  ;  but  though 
many  of  the  faces  were  exceedingly  handsome,  the  May 
Queen  had  not  come  yet.  Nearly  thirty  of,  this  gauzy  train 
had  entered  and  taken  their  stand  round  the  throne,  look- 
ing in  their  swelling  amplitude  of  snowy  gauze  and  swaying 
crinoline  ten  times  that  number,  when  a  mighty  shout  arose 
unanimously  from  the  crowd,  announceing  the  coming  of 
the  fairest  of  them  all — the  Queen  of  May. 

Over  the  flower-strewn  path  came  a  glittering  equipage,  the 
Queen  of  the  Fairies  herself  might  have  ridden  in  ;  a  tiny 
chariot  dazzling  with  gilding,  vivid  with  rose-red  paint,  and 
wreathed  and  encircled  with  flowers,  drawn  by  six  of  the 
snow-clad  nymphs,  the  queen's  maids  of  honor.  By  its  side 
walked  two  children,  neither  more  than  six  years  old,  each 
carrying  a  flag,  one  the  Union  Jack  of  Old  England,  the 
other  a  banner  of  azure  silk,  with  the  name  "  Barbara " 
shining  in  silver  letters  thereon.  And  within  the  chariot 
rode  such  a  vision  of  beauty,  in  the  same  misty  white  robes 
as  her  subjects,  the  blue  sash  round  the  taper  waist,  and  a 
wreath  of  white  roses  round  the  stately  head,  such  a  vision 
of  beauty  as  is  seen  oftener  in  the  brains  of  poets  and 
artists  than  in  real  life,  and  heard  of  oftener  in  fairy  tales 
than  this  prosy,  everyday  world.  But  the  radiant  vision, 
with  a  coronet  of  shining  dark  braids  twisted  round  and 
round  the  stately  head — Nature's  own  luxuriant  crown — 
with  the  lustrous  dark  eyes,  flushed  cheeks  and  smiling  lips, 
was  no  myth  of  fairy  tale,  or  vapory  vision  of  poetry,  but  a 
dazzling  flesh-and-biood  reality  ;  and  as  she  stepped  from 
her  gilded  chariot,  fairest  where  all  were  fair,  "  queen-rose 
of  the  rosebud  garden  of  girls,"  such  a  shout  went  up  from 
the  excited  crowd,  that  the  thunder  of  brass  band  and  drum 
was  drowned  altogether  for  fully  ten  minutes.     "  God  Save 


THE  MAY  QUEEN. 


»iS 


the  Queen  I  "  •'  Long  Live  Queen  Barbara  1  "  rung  and  re- 
rung  on  the  air,  as  if  she  were  indeed  a  crowned  queen,  and 
the  tall,  stately  white  figure,  slender  and  springy  as  a  young 
willow,  bent  smilingly  right  and  Jeft,  while  the  band  still 
banged  out  its  patriotic  tune,  and  the  crowd  still  shouted 
themselves  hoarse. 

"  Great  Heaven  I  "  exclaimed  CHffe,  "  what  a  perfectly 
beautiful  face  I  " 

The  young  giant  in  shooting-jacket  did  not  answer. 
From  the  first  moment  his  eyes  had  fallen  upon  her,  his  face 
had  been  going  through  all  the  phases  of  emotion  that  any 
one  face  can  reasonably  go  through  in  ten  minutes'  time. 
Astonishment,  admiration,  recognition,  doubt  and  delight, 
came  over  it  like  clouds  over  a  summer  sky  ;  and  as  she 
took  her  scat  under  the  flower-bedecked  May-pole,  spread- 
ing out  her  gauzy  skirt  and  azure  ribbons,  he  broke  from 
his  companion  with  a  shout  of  "  It  is  1  "  and  springing  over 
the  intervening  space  in  two  bounds,  he  was  kneeling  at  her 
feet,  raising  her  hand  to  his  lips,  and  crying  in  a  voice  that 
rung  like  a  trumpet-tone  over  the  now  silent  plain  : 

"  Let  me  be  first  to  do  homage  to  Queen  Barbara  I  " 

*'  Hurrah  for  Tom  Shirley  1  "  said  a  laughing  voice  in  the 
crowd,  and  "  Hurrah  I  hurrah  1  hurrah  for  Tom  Shirley  I  " 
shouted  the  multitude,  catching  the  infection,  until  the  tall 
May-poie,  and  the  ground  under  their  feet,  seemed  to  ring 
with  the  echo.  It  was  all  so  sudden  and  so  stunningly  loud, 
that  the  May  Queen,  half-startled,  snatched  away  her  hand, 
and  looked  round  her  bewildered,  and  even  Tom  Shirley 
was  startled,  for  that  giant  gazed  round  at  the  yelling  mob, 
completely  taken  aback  by  his  enthusiastic  reception. 

"  What  the  demon  do  the  good  people  mean  ?  Have  they 
all  gone  mad,  Barbara,  or  do  they  intend  making  a  May 
Queen  of  me,  too  ?  " 

"  They  certainly  ought,  if  they  have  any  taste  1 "  said  the 
girl.  "  But  do  let  me  look  at  you  again,  and  make  sure  that 
it  is  really  Tom  Shirley  !  " 

Tom  defied  his  Scotch  cap  and  made  her  a  courtly 
bow. 

"  Certainly  !  Your  majesty  may  look  as  much  as  you 
like.  You  won't  see  anything  better  worth  looking  at,  if  you 
search  for  a  month  of  Sundays.     I  promise  you  that  I " 


rl 


ii6        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CUFFE.    -  . 

The  young  lady,  trying  to  look  grave,  but  with  a  little 
smile  rippling  round  her  red  lips,  began  at  the  toes  of  his 
Wellington  boots,  scrutinized  him  carefully  to  the  topmost 
kink  of  his  curly  head,  and  recommencing  there,  got  down 
to  the  soles  of  his  boots  again,  before  she  was  prepared  to 
vouch  for  his  identity. 

"  It  is  yourself,  Tom  I  Nobody  else  in  the  world  was  ever 
such  a  Brobdignag  as  you  1  If  you  had  only  come  a  little 
earlier,  you  might  have  saved  them  the  trouble  of  seeking  a 
May-pole  ;  and  just  fancy  how  pretty  you  would  look,  twined 
round  with  garlands  of  roses,  and  a  crown  of  silver  lilies  on 
your  head  1  " 

Mr.  Tom  drew  himself  up  to  the  full  extent  of  his  six  feet, 
four  inches,  and  looked  down  on  the  dark,  bright,  beautiful 
face,  smiling  up  at  him,  under  the  white  roses. 

"  Well,  this  is  cool  1  Here,  after  four  years'  absence,  dur- 
ing which  I  might  have  been  dead  and  buried,  for  all  she 
knew,  instead  of  welcoming  me,  and  falling  on  my  neck,  and 
embracing  me  with  tears,  as  any  other  Christian  would  do, 
she  commences  the  moment  she  claps  eyes  on  me,  calling 
me  names,  and  loading  me  with  opprobrium,  and " 

"  Oh,  nonsense^  Tom  1  You  know  I  am  real  glad  to  see 
you!  "  said  Barbara,  giving  him  her  hand,  carelessly,  "  and 
as  to  falling  on  your  neck,  I  would  have  to  climb  up  a  ladder 
or  a  fire-escape  first,  to  do  it.  But  there,  the  band  is  playing 
the  *  Lancers,'  and  everybody  is  staring  at  us  ;  so  do,  for 
goodness'  sake,  ask  me  to  dance,  or  something,  and  let  us 
get  out  of  this  1  " 

"  With  all  the  pleasure  in  life.  Miss  Black,"  said  Tom,  in 
solemn  politeness.  "  May  I  have  the  honor  of  your  hand  for 
the  first  set  ?  Thank  you  1  And  now — but  first,  where's — ■ 
Oh,  yes,  here  he  is.  Miss  Black,  permit  me  to  present 
this  youthful  relative  of  mine,  Mr.  Leicester  Cliffe,  of  Cliffe- 
wood,  late  of  everywhere  in  general  and  nowhere  in  particular 
— an  amiable  young  person  enough,  of  rather  vagabondish 
inclination,  it  is  true,  but  I  don't  quite  despair  of  him  yet. 
Mr.  Cliflfe,  Miss  Black." 

"  You  villain  1  I'll  break  every  bone  in  your  body !  "  said 
Mr.  Cliffe,  in  a  savage  undertone  to  his  friend,  before  turning 
with  a  profound  bow  to  Barbara,  whose  handkerchief  hid  an 
irrepressible  smile.     "  Miss  Black,  I  trust,  knows  Mr.  Tom 


J  ■  -^ 


THE  MAY  QUEEN. 


n? 


■f^ 


Shirley  too  well  to  give  any  credit  to  anything  he  says. 
May  I  beg  the  honor  of  your  hand  for " 

"  You  may  beg  it,  but  you  won't  get  it, "  interrupted 
Tom.  "  She  is  mine  for  the  next  set,  and  as  many  more  as 
I  want — ain't  you,  Barbara  ?  "  *  ** 

"  For  the  second  then,  Miss  Black?  I'll  not  leave  you  a 
sound  bone  from  head  to  foot  I  "  said  Mr.  Cliflfe,  changing 
his  voice  with  startling  rapidity,  as  he  addressed  first  the 
lady  and  then  the  gentleman. 

"  With  pleasure,  sir,  "  said  Barbara,  who  was  dying  to 
laugh  outright. 

And  Mr.  Leicester  Cliflfe,  favoring  her  with  another  bow, 
with  a  menacing  glance  at  his  companion,  walked  away. 

"  Sic  transit  gloria  mundi  !  They're  waiting  for  us,  Bar- 
bara, "  said  Tom,  making  a  grimace  after  his  relative. 

And  Barbara  burst  out  into  a  silvery  and  uncontrollable 
fit  of  laughter. 

"Tom,  I'm  ashamed  of  you  I  And  is  that  really  Mr. 
Leicester  Cliflfe  ?  " 

"  It  really  is.     What  do  you  know  about  him  pray  ;'  " 

"  Nothing.  There  1  he  is  our  m-rt-z/ij— actually  with 
Caroline  Marsh.  I  have  had  the  honor  of  seeing  him  once 
before  in  my  life — that  is  all  I" 

"Where?" 

"  There  is  a  picture  at  Cliflfewood,  in  the  hall,  of  a  pretty 
little  boy,  with  long,  yellow  curls  and  blue  eyes,  that  I  have 
looked  at  many  a  time — first,  with  you  and  Miss  Vic,  and  af- 
terward when  I  went  there  alone ;  and  I  saw  him  on  several 
occasions  when  he  was  here  six  years  ago."     .■■" 

"  Six  years  ago  ?  Why  that  was  just  after  you  came  to 
Lower  Cliflfe  at  first ;  and  I  was  here  then,  and  I  don't  re- 
member anything  about  it." 

"  No,  I  know  you  don't ;  but  the  way  of  it  was  simple 
enough.  You,  and  Miss  Vic,  and  Lady  Agnes,  and  Colo- 
nel Shirley,  and  Miss  Margaret,  all  left  the  castle  three 
months  after  I  came  to  live  here — you  to  Cambridge,  Miss 
Vic  to  her  French  convent.  Miss  Margaret  to  a  Lon- 
don boarding-school,  and  Lady  Agnes  and*  the  colonel  to 
Belgium.     Do  you  comprehend  ?  " 

"Slightly."  ;  ■  ".- 

"  Well,   let   us  take  o»'t  place  then,   for  the   quadrille  is 


ii8        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CUFFK. 


■H 


about  to  commence.  Sir  Roland  was  going  away,  too,  to 
Syria — was  it  not  ?  And  Mr.  Leicester  came  down  from 
Oxford  to  spend  a  week  or  two  before  his  departure ;  and 
I  saw  him  most  every  day  then,  and  we  were  excellent 
friends,  I  assure  you." 

"  Were  you  ?  That's  odd  ;  for  when  I  was  speaking  of 
you  ten  minutes  ago,  he  seemed  to  know  as  little  about  you  as 
I  do  about  the  pug-faced  lady." 

Barbara  smiled  and  shrugged  her  pretty  shoulders. 

"Out  of  sight,  out  of  mind  I  Monsieur  has  forgotten 
me  ? " 

"  Oh,  the  barbarian !  As  if  any  one  in  their  proper 
senses  could  ever  see  you  and  forget  you  I  Ever  since  we 
parted,"  said  Tom,  laying  his  hand  with  pathos  on  the  left 
side  of  his  green  jacket,  you  have  been  my  star  by  day  and  my 
dream  by  night — the  sun  of  my  existence,  and  the  cherished 
idol  of  my  young  affections.  Don't  be  laughing  ;  it's  truth 
I'm  telling." 

''-  Bah  1  don't  be  talking  nonsense  !  Do  you  remember 
the  night  you  nearly  broke  your  neck,  and  I  saved  you  and 
your  two  cousins  from  the  Demon's  Tower  ?  " 

"That  was  six  years  ago — a  long  stretch  to  look  back; 
but  as  if  I  could  forget  anything  you  ever  had  a  hand  in, 
Barbara  1  " 

"  I'll  box  your  ears,  sir,  if  you  keep  on  making  an  idiot  of 
yourself  1  You  remember  I  was  up  the  next- day  to  the 
castle,  and  enjoyed  the  pleasure  of  the  first  chat  I  ever  had 
with  you ;  and  we  had  a  terrific  quarrel,  that  raged  for  at 
least  three  days  ?  " 

"  I  remember.  I  told  you  that  when  I  grew  up  and  mar- 
ried Vic,  you  should  be  ray  second  wife,  and  that  whichever 
I  found  suited  me  best  should  be  first  sultana.  Well, 
now,  Barbara,  to  make  amends,  suppose  you  become  first, 
and " 

"  Stuff  !  Tell  me  where  you  dropped  from  so  unexpect- 
edly to-day  ?  " 

"  From  Cliffewood  the  last  place.  I  came  down  with 
Leicester  in  last  evening's  train." 

"  Are  you  going  to  remain  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed.     I'm  off  again  to-night." 

"  A   flying   visic,  truly.     Did   you   come  for  a   coal,  Mr, 


THE  MAY  QUBKN. 


119 


Tom,  and  want  to  get  back  to  London  with  it  before  it  goes 
out  ?  " 

"  Not  exactly.  I  came  to  poke  up  that  superannuated  old 
dame,  Mrs.  Wilder,  with  the  intelligence  that  my  lady  and 
suite  are  to  arrive  this  day  month  at  the  castle." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?     Are  all  coming  ? " 

"  All.  My  lady,  the  colonel,  Miss  Shirley,  and  Miss  Mar- 
garet Shirley,  not  to  mention  a  whole  drove  of  visitors,  who 
are  expected  down  later  in  the  summer."   - 

"  And  Miss    Vic — is    she  well,    and  as    pretty  as  ever  ?  '* 

**  Pretty  !  I  believe  you  !  "  She's  all  my  fancy  painted 
her ;  she's  divine,  and  her  heart  it  is  no  other's  and  I'm 
bound  it  shall  be  mine !  Did  you  hear  she  was  presented 
at  court  ? " 

"  I  read  it  in  the  papers,  with  a  full  account  of  her  dia- 
monds, and  moire  antique,  and  honiton  lace,  and  the  sen- 
sation she  created,  and  everything  else.  I  suppose  -she  has 
-been  having  a  very  gay  winter  ?  "  said  Barbara,  with  a  little 
envious  sigh. 

"  Stunning !  It's  her  first  season  out,  and  she  has  made 
a  small  regiment  of  conquests  already.  You  ought  to  see 
her,  Barbara,  in  her  diamonds  and  lace,  looking  down  on 
her  multitude  of  adorers  like  a  princess,  and  eclipsing  all 
tiie  reigning  belles  of  London.  One  of  her  lovers — a  poor 
devil  of  a  poet,  who  was  half-mad  about  her — christened  her 
the  '  Rose  of  Sussex ;  '  and,  upon  my  word,  she  is  far  more 
wildely  known  by  that  title  than  as  Miss  Shirley." 

"  Oh !  "  said  Barbara,  drawing  in  her  breath  hard,  if  I 
only  were  she  1 " 

"  If  you  were,"  said  Tom,  echoing  the  sigh,  "  I  would 
wish  you  to  possess  a  little  more  Iieart.  With  all  her 
beauty,  and  her  smiles,  and  her  coquetry,  she  is  as  finished 
a  coquette  as  ever  broke  a  heart.  The  girl  is  made  of  ice. 
You  might  kneel  down  and  sigh  out  your  soul  at  her  feet, 
and  she  would  laugh  at  you  for  you  pains !  " 

"  She  must  have  changed  greatly  then  since  she  left  here 
six  years  ago." 

*'  Changed !  There  never  was  such  change — improve- 
ment, perhaps,  some  people  would  call  it ;  but  I  can't  see  it. 
She  used  to  be  Vic  Shirley  then,  but  now  she  is  Miss  or 
Mademoiselle  Genevieve  ;  and  with  all  that  satin  and  crino- 


I  I 


120       THK  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CLIFFE. 

line  floating  around  her,  a  fellow  can  ,only  look  on  and  ad- 
mire from  a  respectful  distance.  Have  you  never  seen  her 
since  ? " 

"  Never  I  But,"  said  Barbara,  with  a  sudden  crimsoning, 
that  might  have  been  pride  or  any  other  feeling,  deepening 
the  rose-hue  on  her  cheek,  "  she  wrote  me  one  letter  1 " 

"  How  g^erous  I  And  you  saved  her  Ufe,  too  I  What 
was  it  about  ?  " 

"  It  was  a  year  ago,"  said  Barbara,  In  a  low  tone  ;  "  a  few 
months  before  she  left  school,  and  the  colonel  brought  it 
from  Paris— you  may  have  heard  she  was  there  for  a  few 
days  last  May.  The  emperor  and  empress  had  visited  her 
convent-school,  and  she  had  been  chosen  to  speak  an  ad- 
dress, and  present  a  bouquet  to  each,  and  *the  emperor  was 
struck  by  her — by  her  beauty,  perhaps,"  with  a  little  tremor 
of  the  clear  voice  ;  "  and  when  it  was  all  over,  he  came  up 
to  her  and  inquired  her  name,  and  chatted  with  her  for 
some  time,  to,  the  great  envy  of  all  the  rest  of  the  school." 

*'  Oh,  I've  heard  of  all  that !"  said  Tom,  with  an  impa- 
tient shrug.  "  Lady  Agnes  has  taken  care  to  bore  her  dear 
five  hundred   friends  with  it  at   least   a  thousand   times  1  " 

"  Yes  ;  but  that  is  not  all.  Next  day  there  came  to  the 
convent  a  little  casket  of  purple-velvet  and  ivory  for 
Mademoiselle  Shirley,  bearing  the  imperial  arms,  and 
within  there  was  a  superb  chain  of  gold  and  seed  pearls, 
with  two  lovely  pearl  hearts  set  in  gold,  and  rubies  united 
by  a  scoU  bearing  the  letter  *  N  '  attached.  It  was  the  gift 
of  the  emperor ;  and  Miss  Victoria  gave  me  the  whole  ac- 
count in  her  letter,  and  the  colonel  had  a  duplicate  made  in 
Paris,  and  gave  it  to  me — only,"  said  Barbara,  laughing, 
with  tears  in  her  eyes,  "  with  his  cipher  instead  of  the  im- 
perial one." 

*•  That  was  prime  !  And  why  don't  you  wear  his  pretty 
present  ? " 

**  I  always  do,  here,"  tapping  lightly  on  her  white  corsage. 
**  I  shall  never  part  with  it  till  I  die  1  And  are  you  going 
to  marry  your  cousin,  Tom  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Tom,  with  a  groan.  I  wish  to 
Heaven  I  could ;  but  it  doesn't  depend  on  me,  unfortunately. 
She  is  encircled  from  week's  end  to  week's  end  with  a  crowd 
of  perfumed  Adonises,  who  always  flutter  around  heiresses 


THE  MAY  QUEEN. 


121 


like  moths  round  a  lighted  candle ;  and  girls  are  such  in- 
conceivable fools,  that  they  are  always  sure  to  prefer  one  of 
those  nicely-winged  moths  to  a  straightforward,  honest, 
sensible,  practical  man.  Miserable  little  popinjays  !  I  could 
take  the  best  of  them  by  the  waistband  and  lay  them  low  in 
the  kennel,  any  day,  if  I  liked !  " 

"  You  great  big  monster !  Then  tlie  great  bear  has 
actually  lost  his  heart !  " 

"  Great  bear  !  You  are  all  alike  ;  and  her  pet  name  for 
me  is  Ursa  Major,  too  1 " 

"  But  you  are  really  in  love,  Tom  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  that,  either  1  "  groaned  Tom.  *'  Some- 
times I  love  her  —sometimes  I  hate  her !  and  then  she  is 
provoking  enough  to  make  a  meeting-house  swear  1  Oh,  there's 
old  Sweet,  the  lawyer,  as  yellow  and  smiling  as  ever,  dally- 
ing along  with  Leicester,  and  I  suppose  I  must  give  you  up 
to  him  for  one  set,  at  least  I  By  the  way,  liow  is  the  gov- 
ernor and  the  old  lady  ?  " 

"  If  you  mean  my  father  and  grandmother,  they  are  as 
Avell  as  usual." 

"  Well,  that's  jolly — beg  your  pardon  1  Ursa  Major  has 
bruinish  ways  of  talking,  and  they  never  could  knock  any 
manners  into  me  at  Cambridge.  Oh,  I  see  something  nice 
over  there,  and  I'm  going  to  ask  her  for  the  next  dance." 

Off  went  Tom,  like  a  rocket,  and  up  came  suave  and 
graceful  Mr.  Leicester  Cliffe,  with  the  smiling  agent  of  Lady 
Agnes  Shirley, 

"  I  believe  I  have  the  honor  of  the  next,  lady  fair,"  said 
the  young  gentleman.  "  You  and  Tom  appeared  to  prefer 
talking  to  dancing,  if  one  might  judge  from  appearances. 

Barbara  laughed. 

"  Tom  and  I  are  old  friends,  Mr.  Cliffe ;  and  when  old 
friends  meet  they  have  a  thousand  things  to  say  to  each 
other."  .         , 

*'  Mr.  Cliffe — and  you  used  to  call  me  Leicester  when  I 
was  here  before." 

"  Oh,  but  you  were  a  boy  then  1  "  said  Barbara,  with  an- 
other gay  laugh  and  vivid  blush. 

"  Well,  just  think  I'm  a  boy  again,  won't  you  ?  Barbara 
and  Leicester  are  much  pleasanter  and  shorter  than  Miss 
Black  and  Mr.  Cliffe." 


122        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CUFFE. 


.    Barbara  did  not  speak. 

"  If  I  were  a  lady,"  was  her  thought,  "  would  he  talk  to  me 
like  this  ? " 

And  all  the  fierce,  indomitable  pride,  asleep  but  not  dead 
within  her  rose  up,  and  sent  a  crimson  to  her  cheek  and 
a  fire  to  her  eye,  and  a  sudden  uplifting  of  the  haughty  little 
head. 

"  Six  years  is  a  long  time,  Mr.  Cliffe  1  "  she  said,  coldly ; 
"  and  half  an  hour  ago  you  had  forgotten  me  I  " 

"  Miss  Barbara,  I  have  sinned  in  doing  so,  and  have  been 
repenting  of  it  ever  since.  I  accuse  myself,"  he  said,  peni- 
tently, "  of  forgetting  the  little  wild-eyed  gipsy,  who  used  to 
sit  on  my  knee  and  sing  for  me  '  Lang-syne  ; '  but  when  I 
cease  to  forget  the  May  Queen  of  to-day,  I  shall  have  ceased 
to  forget  all  things  earthly  I  " 

There  was  a  low,  mocking  laugh  behind  them,  and  Bar- 
bara turned  round.  She  had  not.  laughed  at  his  speech  as 
she  had  done  at  similar  speeches  from  Tom  Shirley,  and  her 
dark  face  was  glowing  like  the  heart  of  a  June  rose  when 
her  eye  fell  on  the  laugher.  But  it  was  only  Mr.  Sweet, 
talking  to  a  vivacious  little  damsel,  and  not  paying  any  at- 
tention to  them  at  all. 

The  heir  of  Cliffewood  and  the  fisherman's  daughteMook 
their  station  at  the  head  of  the  quadrille,  and  hundreds  of 
eyes  turned  curiously  upon  them.  The  gulf  between  herself 
and  Tom  Shirley  was  not  so  very  wide,  for  Tom  was  nearly 
as  poor  as  she ;  but  the  heir  of  Cliffewood — that  was  an- 
other thing  I 

"  What  a  handsome  couple  ! "  more  than  one  had  said, 
in  a  stage-whisper. 

And  a  handsome  couple  they  were.  The  young  artist, 
with  his  dreamy  brow,  his  splendid  eyes,  his  fair  brown 
hair,  his  proud  characteristic  face  and  princely  bearing  ;  the 
girl  crowned  with  roses,  and  crowned  with  her  beauty  and 
pride,  as  a  far  more  regal  diadem,  her  dress  of  gauzy  white 
a  duchess  or  a  peasant  might  have  worn  with  equal 
propriety,  looking  a  lady  to  hei  finger-tips.  The  whisper 
reached  them  as  they  moved  away  at  the  conclusion  of  the 
dance,  she  leaning  lightly  on  his  arm ;  and  he  turned  to  h^r 
with  a  smile. 


-»«5 


THE  MAY  QUKKN. 


123 


kad 

fnd 

tie 

|iy; 

len 

;ni- 

to 

I 

sed 


"  Did  you  hear  that  ?  They  call  you  and  I  a  couple,  Bar- 
bara." 

"  Village  gossips  will  make  remarks  1  "  said  the  young 
lady,  with  infinite  composure  ;  "  and  over  in  that  field  there 
are  a  horse  and  an  ox  coupled.  Noble  and  inferior  animals 
should  find  their  own  level." 

"  You  are  pleased  to  be  sarcastic." 

"  Not  at  all.  Where  have  you  been  all  these  years,  Mr. 
Cliffe  1 " 

"  Over  the  world.  I  made  the  grand  tour  when  I  left 
Oxford,  four  years  ago ;  then  I  visited  the  East ;  and,  last 
of  all,  I  went  to  America.  This  day  six  weeks  I  was  in  New 
York." 

"  America  I  Ah  1  I  should  like  to  go  there  1  It  has  been 
my  dream  all  my  life."  . 

"  And  why  ? " 

She  did  not  speak.  Her  eyes  were  downcast  and  her 
cheeks  crimson. 

'•  Will  your  majesty  not  tell  your  most  faithful  subject  ?  " 
he  said,  laughing  in  a  careless  way,  that  reminded  her  of 
Colonel  Shirley ;  and,  indeed,  his  every  look  and  tone  and 
smile  reminded  her  of  the  absent  Indian  officer,  and  made 
her  think  far  more  tenderly  of  Mr.  Leicester  Cliffe  than  she 
could  otherwise  have  done ;  for  Barbara  had  the  strongest 
and  strangest  affection  for  the  handsome  colonel  in  the  world. 

"  Why  would  you  like  to  go  to  America  ?  "  he  reiterated, 
looking  at  her  curiously. 

She  raised  her  eyes,  flashing  with  a  strange  fire,  and  drew 
her  hand  hastily  from  his  arm. 

"  Because  all  are  equals  there.  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Cliffe  ; 
I  am  engaged  to  Mr.  Sweet  for  this  cotillion." 

He  looked  after  her  with  a  strange  smile,  as  she  moved 
away,  treading  the  ground  as  if  she  were  indeed  a  queen. 

"  You  will  sing  another  tune  some  day,  my  haughty  little 
beauty,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  or  my  power  will  fail  for 
once." 

The  day  passed  delightfully.  There  was  the  dinner  on 
the  grass,  and  more  dancing,  and  long  promenades  ;  and  the 
May  Queen's  innumerable  admirers  uttered  curses  not  loud 
but  deep,  to  find  Mr.  Leicester  Cliffe  devoted  himself  to  her 
all  day,  as  if  she  had  been  the  greatest  lady  in  the  land. 


224       THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CUFFE-         - 

To  contest  any  prize  against  such  a  rival  was  not  to  be 
thought  of ;  and,  when  supper  was  over,  and  the  stars 
were  out,  and  the  young  May  nnoon  rose  up,  the  heir  of 
Cliffewood  walked  home  with  the  cottage-beauty  on  his  arm. 
Tom  Shirley  had  taken  the  evening  train  for  London,  and 
there  was  none  to  tell  tales  out  of  school. 

The  sea  lay  asleep  in  the  moonlight,  and  the  fishing-boats 
danced  over  the  silvery  ripples  under  the  hush  of  the  solemn 
stars. 

"  Oh,  what  a  night  I  "  exclaimed  Barbara.  "  What  a  moon 
that  is  I  and  what  a  multitude  of  stars  1  It  seems  to  me," 
with  a  light  laugh,  "  they  never  were  so  many  nor  so  beau- 
tiful before." 

"  They're  all  beautiful,"  said  Leicester,  speaking  of  them 
and  looking  at  her.  "  But  I  have  seen  a  star  brighter  than 
any  there,  to-day  I     Fairest  Barbara.     Good  night  I  " 

Those  same  slandered  stars  watched  Mr.  Leicester  Cliffe 
slowly  riding  homeward  in  their  placid  light,  and  watched 
him  fall  asleep  with  his  head  on  his  arm,  and  the  same  queer 
half -smile  on  his  lips,  to  dream  of  Barbara. 


•;v'**' 


^f'-  ■-^. 


.  i  ■■■*:,  : 


THE  WARNING. 


"5 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


THE    WARNING. 


Sir  Roland  Cliffe  sat  in  his  dining-room  at  Cliffewood 
— a  pleasant  room,  with  a  velvet  carpet  of  crimson  and  white 
on  the  floor ;  crimson-satin  curtains  draping  the  French 
windows  that  opened  on  a  sunny  sweep  of  lawn ;  pictures 
on  the  satin-paneled  wails — pretty  pictures  in  gilded  frames, 
of  fruit  and  the  chase,  with  green  glimpses  of  Indian  jungles, 
American  prairies  and  Canadian  forests — the  latter  the 
work  of  Sir  Roland's  heir.  Sir  Roland  himself  sat  in  a 
great  armchair  of  crimson  velvet,  with  gilded  back  and  arms 
— a  corpulent  gentleman  of  fifty,  much  addicted  to  that 
gentlemanly  disease,  the  gout — before  an  antique  mahogany 
table,  draped  with  the  snowiest  of  damask,  strewn  with 
baskets  of  silver  filagree,  heaped  with  oranges,  grapes  and 
nuts,  and  flanked  with  sundry  cut-glass  decanters  of  ruby 
port  and  golden  sherry.  An  open  letter  lay  on  the  table,  in 
a  dainty  Italian  hand,  that  began,  "  My  dear  brother ;  "  and 
while  the  May  sunshine  and  breezes  floated  blandly  through 
the  crimson  curtains.  Sir  Roland  sipped  his  pale  sherry, 
munched  his  walnuts  and  grapes,  and  ruminated  deeply. 
He  had  sat  quite  alone  over  his  dessert,  making  his  medita- 
tions, when  right  in  the  middle  of  an  unusually  profound  one 
came  the  sound  of  a  light,  quick  step  on  the  terrace  without, 
the  sweet  notes  of  a  clear  voice  singing,  "  The  Lass  o' 
Gowrie,"  and  the  next  minute  the  door  was  thrown  open, 
and  Mr.  Leicester  Cliffe  walked  in,  with  his  huge  Canadian 
wolf-dog  by  his  side.  The  young  gentleman  wore  a  shoot- 
ing costume,  and  had  a  gun  in  his  hand ;  and  the  seaside 
sun  and  wind  seemed  to  agree  with  him  mightily,  for  there 
was  a  glow  on  his  pale  cheek  and  a  dancing  light  in  his 
luminous  eyes. 

"  Late,  as  usual  1 "  was  his  salutation,  as  he  stood  his  gua 


126       THE  HEIRESS  OF  CAvSTLE  CUFFE. 

in  a  corner,  and  flung  his  wide-awake  on  a  sofa.  "  I  intended 
to  be  the  soul  of  punctuality  to-day  ;  but  the  time  goes  here 
one  doesn't  know  how,  and  I  only  found  out  it  was  getting 
late  by  feeling  half-famished.  Hope  I  haven't  kept  you 
waiting  ? " 

"  I  have  not  waited,"  said  Sir  Roland.  "  Ring  the  bell, 
and  they'll  bring  your"  dinner.  Been  gunning,  I  see  ?  I 
hope  with  more  success  than  usual." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  not.  Loup  and  I  have  spent  our  day 
and  bagged  nothing." 

"  Very  shy  game  yours  must  be,  I  think." 

"  It  is  1  "  said  Leicester,  with  emphasis, 

"  Well,  you'll  have  the  chance  to  aim  at  game  of  another 
sort,  soon — high  game,  too,  my  boy !  Here  is  a  letter  from 
Lady  Agnes." 

"Indeed!" 

"  And  it  contains  a  pressing  invitation  for  you  to  go  up 
to  London  and  be  present  at  a  ball  her  ladyship  gives  in  a 
few  days  ! " 

"  Does  it  ?     I  won't  go  1  " 

"  You  will  go  I     Listen : 

"  *  Tell  Leicester  to  be  sure  to  come,  Roland.  I  would  not  have 
him  absent  for  the  world.  It  is  about  the  last  ball  of  the  season, 
and  he  will  meet  scores  of  old  friends,  who  will  be  anxious  to  see 
him  after  all  those  years  of  heathenish  wandering.  And  you  know 
there  is  another,  and  still  stronger  reason,  my  dear  brother,  for  if 
the  propose^  alliance  between  Victoria  and  him  ever  becomes  an 
established  fact,  I  am  extremely  desirous  to  have  it  settled,  and 
the  engagement  publicly  made  known  before  we  leave  I^ondon.'  '• 


Sir  Roland  laid  down  the  letter  at  this  passage,  and 
looked  complacently  across  the  table  at  his  stepson  ;  and 
that  young  gentleman,  who  had  been  paying  profound  at- 
tention to  his  dinner,  and  very  little  to  her  ladyship's  letter, 
now  raised  an  eye  haughty  and  indignant. 

"  The  proposed  alliance  1  What  does  Lady  Agnes  mean 
by  that  ?  "  , 

"  Precisely  what  she  says,  my  dear  boy.  Pass  those 
oranges,  if  you  please." 

"  That  I'm  to  marry  her  granddaughter,  Miss  Victoria 
Shirley?" 


THE  WARNING. 


127 


IJ 


"  Exactly  1  Oh,  you  needn't  fire  up  like  that.  The  matter 
is  the  simplest  thing  in  the  world.  Lady  Agnes  and  I  have 
intended  you  for  one  another  ever  since  little  Vic  first  came 
from  France." 

"  Much  obliged  to  you  both;  at  the  same  time,  I  beg  to 
decline  the  honor." 

"  You  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind  1  It  is  the  most  reason- 
able and  well-assorted  match  in  the  world.  You  are  both 
young,  both  good-looking,  both  of  the  same  family,  yet 
unrelated,  and  the  two  estates  will  join  admirably,  and  make 
you  one  of  the  richest  landed  gentlemen  in  England." 

<'  Unanswerable  arguments,  all.  Still  permit  me  to  de- 
cline." 

"  And  why,  pray  ?  "  inquired  Sir  Roland,  slightly  raising 
his  voice. 

"  My  dear  sir,"  said  the  young  gentleman,  filling  M'ith 
precision  his  glass  with  sherry,  "  I  am  infinitely  obliged  to 
her  ladyship  and  yourself  for  selecting  a  wife  for  me  in  this 
most  royal  and  courtly  fashion ;  but  still,  strange  as  it  may 
appear,  I  have  always  had  the  vague  notion  that  I  should 
like  to  select  the  lady  myself.  It  seems  a  licile  unreasonable, 
I  allow,  but  then  it's  a  whim  I  have." 

"  Stuff  and  nonsense  !  .  What  would  the  boy  have  ?  If 
you  "want  riches,  she  is  the  richest  heiress  in  the  kingdom ; 
and  if  you  want  beauty  you  may  search  the  three  kingdoms 
and  not  see  anything  like  her."  < 

"  I  don't  know  about  that.     I  have  never  seen  her." 

"  You  have  seen  her  picture,  then.  It  is  all  the  same  in 
Greek." 

"  I  have  looked  at  a  picture  over  there  in  the  old  hall,  of 
a  very  pink-an'd-white  damsel,  with  round  blue  eyes  and 
colorless  hair,  and  as  insipid,  I  am  ready  to  make  my 
affidavit,  as  a  mug  of  milk  and  water.  I  don't  fancy  the 
small-beer  style  of  young  ladies ;  and  as  for  her  beauty — 
cream-candy  and  strawberries  are  very  nice  in  their  way, 
but  nobody  can  live  on  them  forever." 

"  Speak  plain  English,  sir,  and  never  mind  cream-candy. 
Do  you  mean  to  say  you  refuse  the  hand  of  Miss  Shirley  ?  " 

*'  Really,  Sir  Roland,  you  have  the  most  point-blank  way 
of  putting  questions.  Does  Miss  Shirley  know  that  she  is 
to  remain,  like  a  stationer's  parcel,  to  be  left  till  I  call  for 


128        THK  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CLIFFB. 


her  ?  Or,  if  that  is  not  plain  enough  English,  is  she  a  party 
to  this  affair  ?  " 

"  She  knows  nothing  about  it ;  but  it  will  be  made  known 
to  her  as  soon  as  you  arrive  in  London." 

"  And  do  you  suppose,  sir,  that  she,  a  beauty,  an  heiress, 
a  belle,  moving  ii  the  first  circles,  with  all  the  best  men  of 
the  day  at  her  feet,  will  consent  to  be  made  a  puppet  of,  and 
jump  into  my  arms  the  moment  I  open  them  ?  The  day 
has  passed  for  such  things,  sir,  and  English  girls  are  too 
spunky  to  be  treated  like  Eastern  slaves." 

She  is  no  English  girl.  She  is  French  by  birth  and 
education  ;  French  to  the  core  of  her  heart ;  and,  being 
French,  she  is  too  well  used  to  this  style  of  thing  to  dream 
for  a  moment  of  opposing  the  will  of  her  guardians.  The 
girl  is  what  you  are  not — as  obedient  as  if  trained  in  a  mili- 
tary school.  A  girl  with  such  French  notions  as  she  has 
would  almost  marry  a  live  kangaroo,  if  her  friends  desired  it." 

"  And  that  in  itself  is  another  objection.  Miss  Shirley, 
as  you  say,  is  French.  So  was  her  mother.  Would  you 
have  a  Cliffe  marry  the  daughter  of  a  French  actress  ?  " 

"  I'll  break  your  head  witti  this  decanter  if  you  insinuate 
such  a  thing  again  I  "  said  Sir  Roland,  furiously  ;  for  there 
was  still  a  tender  spot  in  his  heart  sacred  to  the  memory  of 
Vivia.  "  Miss  Shirley  is  altogether  too  good  for  such  a 
worthless  scapegrace  as  yourself.  And  I  vow,  sir,  I  have 
half  a  mind  to  disinherit  you  and  make  Tom  Shirley  my 
heir.  He  would  marry  her  the  moment  he  was-  asked,  with- 
out the  least  objection." 

Leicester  laughed  at  the  threat  •"  ..     -^• 

"I  do  not  doubt  it  in  the  least,  sir.  But  you  and  Lady 
Agnes  are  the  most  artless  conspirators  ever  I  heard  of. 
Now,  when  you  wanted  us  to  unite  our  fortunes,  your  plan 
was  to  have  brought  us  together  in  some  romantic  and 
unusual  way,  and  warned  us,  under  the  most  frightful  penal- 
ties, not  to  dream  of  ever  being  anything  but  acquaintances. 
The  consequence  would  have  been  a  severe  attack  of  the 
grand  passion,  and  an  elopement  in  a  fortnight.  I  compli- 
ment you,  sir,  by  saying  that  you  have  no  more  art  than  if 
you  were  five  instead  of  fifty  years  old." 

"  We  don't  want  to  be  artful.  The  matter  is  to  be 
arranged  in  the  most  plain  and  straightforward  manner — 


THE  WARNING. 


139 


rty 

Iwn 


nothing  deceitful  or  underhand  about  it.  If  you  choose  to 
marry  Miss  Shirley,  and  gratify  the  dearest  wish  of  my 
heart,  I  shall  be  grateful  and  happy  all  my  life ;  if  you  prefer 
declining,  well  and  good.  Vic  will  get  a  better  man,  and  I 
shall  know  how  to  treat  my  dutiful  stepson." 

"  Is  that  meant  for  a  threat,  Sir  Roland  ? " 

"  You  may  construe  it  in  any  way  you  choose,  Mr.  Lei- 
cester Cliffe,  but  I  certainly  have  counted  without  hesi- 
tation on  your  consent  in  this  matter  for  the  last  six  years." 

"  But,  my  dear  sir,  don't  talk  as  if  the  affair  all  rested  with 
me.     Miss  Shirley  may  be  the  first  to  decline." 

"  I  tell  you  she  will  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  Miss  Shirley 
will  obey  her  natural  guardians,  and  marry  you  any  moment 
you  ask  her."  .       ~ 

"A  most  dignified  position  for  the  young  lady,"  said 
Leicester,  with  a  slight  shrug  and  smile,  as  he  proceeded 
with  solicitude  to  light  his  cigar.  "  Of  course,  her  father 
knows  all  about  this." 

"  Her  father  knows  nothing  of  it  as  yet.  He  is  one  of  those 
men  who  set  their  faces  against  anything  like  coercion,  and 
who  would  not  have  his  daughter  s  wishes  forced  in  the 
slightest  degree." 

"  I  admire  his  good  sense.  And  suppose  I  consent  to 
this  step,  when  shall  I  start  for  London  ?  " 

"  To-morrow  morning,  in  the  first  train.  There  is  no 
time  to  be  lost,  if  you  wish  to  arrive  for  the  ball." 

"  And  the  first  thing  I  have  to  do  upon  getting  there,  I 
suppose,  is,  to  step  up  to  the  young  lady,  hat  in  hand,  and 
say :  *  Miss  Shirley,  your  grandmother  and  my  father  have 
agreed  that  we  should  marry.  I  don't  care  a  snap  for  you, 
but  at  their  express  command  I  have  come  here  to  make  you 
my  wife.'     How  do  you  like  the  style  of  that,  sir  ? " 

"  You  may  propose  any  way  you  please,  so  that  you  do  it. 
She  is  a  sensible  girl,  and  will  understand  it.  You  will  go, 
then  ?  " 

"  Here,  Loup  1 "  said  the  young  man,  holding  out  a  bunch 
of  grapes  to  his  dog,  by  way  of  answer ;  "  get  down  off  that 
velvet  ottoman  directly.  What  do  you  suppose  our  worthy 
housekeeper  will  say,  when  she  finds  the  tracks  of  your 
dirty  paws  on  its  whiteness  ? " 

"  I  knew  all  along  you  would  go,"  said  Sir  Roland,  filling 


fei 


I30       THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CLIFFE. 


his  glass.  Here's  her  health  in  old  port,  and  success  to 
you  both  1  The  only  astonishing  thing  is,  how  you  could 
have  remained  here  so  long.  When  you  got  here  first,  two 
weeks  ago,  you  told  me  before  you  had  been  five  minutes  in 
the  house  that  you  would  die  of  ennui  to  stay  here  a  week ; 
but  two  of  them  have  passed  now,  and  here  you  are,  a  per- 
manent fixture,  and  not  a  word  of  ennui.  To  be  sure  there 
are  amusements,  you  can  go  out  shooting  every  morning, 
and  return  every  evening  empty-handed  ;  you  can  go  out 
sailing,  there  are  plenty  of  boats  in  Lower  Cliflfe,  and 
there  are  plenty  agreeable  fishermen,  too,  with  handsome 
daughters." 

It  might  have  been  the  reflection  of  the  curtains — the 
young  gentleman  was  standing  by  the  window  smoking,  and 
contemplating  the  scenery ;  but  his  face  turned  crimson. 

"  There  is  one  particularly,"  went  on  Sir  Roland,  dryly. 
"  Black  is  the  man,  I  think — very  fine  f'^llow,  I  have  no 
doubt,  with  a  tall,  dark-haired  daughter,  xiarbara  is  a  nice 
little  girl,  always  was,  and  will  teach  you  to  row  and  catch 
lobsters  to  perfection,  very  likely ;  but  still  Mr.  Leicester 
Cliflfe  has  other  duties  to  fulfil  in  life  besides  those  two. 
Take  care,  my  dear  boy,  and  when  you  reach  London,  don't 
talk  too  much  of  the  fisherman's  girl  to  the  heiress  of  Castle 
Cliflfe." 

The  young  man  had  been  standing  with  his  foot  on  the 
window-sill  during  this  harangue ;  now  he  stepped  out  on 
the  lawn. 

"  I  will  go  to  London  to-morrow,  sir,"  he  said,  quietly ; 
and  was  hid  from  view  by  the  screening  curtains. 

Flinging  away  his  cigar,  Leicester  strode  around  to  the 
stables  with  his  dog  at  his  heels,  and  without  waiting  to 
change  his  dress,  mounted  his  horse,  and  in  five  minutes 
after  was  dashing  along  in  the  direction  of  Lower  Cliflfe. 
A  horse  in  that  small  village  would  have  created  a  sensation. 
Mr.  Leicester  never  brought  one  there,  and  he  did  not  now. 
Leaving  it  in  the  marshes  in  the  care  of  a  boy,  he  walked 
down  the  straggling  path  among  the  rocks,  and  halted  at  the 
door  of  Mr.  Black's  cottage. 

"  Come  in  I  "  called  a  sharp  voice,  in  answer  to  his  low 
knock ;  and  obeying  the  peremptory  order,  he  did  walk  in, 
and  found  himself  face  to  face  with  old  Judith.     No  one  else 


THE  WARNING. 


IM 


was  visible,  and  the  old  lady  sat  upon  the  broad  hearth, 
propped  up  against  the  chimney-piece,  with  her  knees  drawn 
up  to  her  chin,  embraced  by  her  clasped  fingers,  and  blow  ing 
the  smoke  from  a  small,  black  pipe  in  her  mouth,  up  the 
chimney. 

"  If  you  want  our  Barbara,  young  gentleman,"  said  Judith, 
the  moment  her  sharp  eyes  rested  on  him,  "  she's  not  here ; 
she  went  out  ten  minutes  ago,  and  I  rather  think,  if  you  go 
through  the  park  gates  and  walk  smart,  you'll  catch  up  to 
her." 

"  Thank  you.  What  a  jolly  old  soul  she  is  1  "  said  Leices- 
ter, apostrophizing  the  old  lady,  as  he  turned  out  again  and 
sprung  with  long  strides  over  the  road,  through  the  open 
gates  and  along  the  sweeping  path  leading  to  the  castle. 

As  he  went  on,  he  caught  sight  of  a  fluttering  skirt  glanc- 
ing in  and  out  through  the  trees,  and  in  two  minutes  he  was 
beside  the  tall  girlish  figure,  walking  under  the  waving 
branches  with  a  free,  quick,  elastic  step. 

Barbara,  handsomer  even  in  her  plain,  winter,  crimson 
merino,  trimmed  with  knots  of  black  velvet  and  black  lace  ; 
with  no  covering  on  the  graceful  head,  but  the  shining  braids 
of  dark  hair  twisted,  and  knotted,  and  looped,  as  if  there  was 
no  way  of  disposing  of  their  exuberance,  and  with  two  or 
three  rosy  daisies  gleaming  through  their  darkness,  looked 
up  at  him  half-surprised,  half-pleased. 

"  Why,  Leicester,  what  in  the  world  has  brought  you 
here  ? " 

"  My  horse,  part  of  the  way — T  walked  the  rest." 

"  Don't  be  absurd  I  When  you  went  away  half  an  hour 
ago  I  did  not  expect  to  see  you  again  in  Lower  Cliffe  to- 
day." 

"  Neither  did  I ;  but  it  seems  I  am  going  away,  and  it 
struck  me  I  should  like  to  say  gopd-by." 

Barbara  started  and  paled  slightly. 

"Going  away!     Where?" 

"To  London." 

"  Oh,  is  that  all  ?     And  how  long  are  you  going  to  stay  ?  " 

"  Only  a  week  or  two.  The  Shirleys  are  coming  back 
then,  am  I'm  to  return  with  them." 

His  grave  tone  startled  her,  and  she  looked  at  him  search- 
ingly. 


^■•■4 


u 


t\ 


132        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CIvIFFE. 

"Is  anything  wrong?  What  are  you  looking  so  solemn 
about  ? " 

"  Barbara,  I  have  two  or  three  words  to  say.  Come  along 
till  we  get  a  seat." 

They  walked  along,  side  by  side,  in  silence,  and  turning 
into  a  by-path  of  yew  and  elm,  they  came  in  sight  of  the 
Nun's  Grave,  lying  still  and  gloomy  under  their  shade. 

"  This  is  just  the  place,"  said  Leicester  ;  "  and  here  is  a 
seat  for  you,  Barbara,  on  this  fallen  tree." 

But  Barbara  recoiled. 

"  Oh,  not  here  !  it  is  like  a  tomb — it  is  a  tomb,  this  place  !  " 

"Nonsense!  What  is  the  matter  with  you?  What  are 
you  looking  so  pale  for  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  said  Barbara,  recovering  herself  with  a  slight 
laugh ;  "  only  I've  not  been  here  for  six  years.  Miss  Shirley 
Aviis  with  me  then,  and  something  startled  us  both,  and  made 
us  afraid  of  the  place." 

"  Ah  I  "  his  face  darkened  slightly  at  the  name  ;  "  nothing 
will  harm  you  while  I  am  near.     Here  is  a  seat." 

She  seated  herself  on  the  old  trunk  of  a  tree,  covered  with 
moss,  and  he  threw  himself  on  the  grave,  with  his  arm  on 
the  black  cross,  and  looked  up  in  the  beautiful,  questioning 
face. 

"  Well,  Barbara,  do  you  know  what  I've  come  to  say  ? " 

"  You've  told  me  already.  Good-by ! "  said  Baroara, 
plucking  the  daisies,  with  a  ruthless  hand,  from  the  grave, 
without  looking  up. 

"  And  something  else — that  I  love  you,  Barbara  I  " 

She  looked  up  at  him  and  broke  into  a  low,  mocking  laugh. 

"  Do  you  not  believe  me  ?  "  he  asked,  quietly. 

"No  I" 
.    "  Pleasant  that,  and  why  ? " 

"  Because,  sir  1 "  she  said,  turning  upon  him  so  suddenly 
and  fiercely  that  he  started,  "  such  words  from  you  to  me, 
spoken  in  earnest,  would  be  an  insult.*' 

"  An  insult  1     Barbara,  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  !  " 

"  You  don't.  It  is  plain  enough,  nevertheless.  You  are 
the  son  of  a  baronet,  and  the  heir  of  Cliffewood ;  I  am  the 
daughter  of  a  fisherman,  promoted  to  that  high  estate  from 
being  a  rope-dancer  1  Ask  yourself,  then,  what  such  words 
from  you  to  me  can  be  but  the  deadliest  of  insults  I  " 


y 


THE  WARNING. 


133 


fong 

ling 
the 

is  a 


t/^ 


"  Barbara,  you  are  mad,  mad  with  pride.  Stay  and  hear  me 
out." 

"I  am  not  mad.  I  will  not  stay  "  she  cried,  passion- 
ately, rising  up.  "  I  did  think  you  were  my  friend,  Mr. 
Cliffe ;  I  did  think  you  respected  me  a  little.  I  never  thoug^^t 
I  could  fall  so  low,  in  your  eyes,  as  this  !  " 

He  sprung  to  his  feet  and  caught  both  her  hands  as  she 
was  turning,  with  a  passionate  gesture,  away,  and,  holding 
her  firmly,  looked  in  her  eyes  with  a  smile. 

"  Barbara,  what  are  thinking  of  ?  Are  you  crazy  ?  I  love 
you  with  all  my  heart,  and  some  day,  sooner  or  later,  I  will 
make  you  Lady  Cliffe." 

"  You  will  make  me  nothing  of  the  kind,  sir.  Release  me, 
I  command  you,  for  I  will  not  stay  here  to  be  mocked." 

"  It  is  my  turn  to  be  obstinate  now.  I  will  not  let  you  go, 
and  I  am  not  mocking,  but  in  most  desperate  earnest.  Look 
at  me,  Barbara,  and  read  the  truth  for  yourself  1 " 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  the  handsome,  smiling  face  bending 
over  hf  r,  and  read  there  truth  and  honor  in  glance  and  smile. 

"  Oh,  Leicester !  "  she  passionately  cried.  "  Do  not  deceive 
me  now,  or  my  heart  will  break  1  I  have  had  wild  dreams 
of  my  own,  but  never  before  anything  so  wild  as  this.  How 
can  you  care  for  one  so  far  beneath  you ;  and,  oh  !  what 
will  Sir  Roland  and  Lady  Agnes  say  if  it  be  true  ? " 

"  What  they  please  I     I  am  my  own  master,  Barbara  1  " 

"  But  Sir  Roland  may  disinherit  you." 

"  Let  him.  I  have  my  own  fortune,  or  rather  my  mother's ; 
and  the  day  I  was  of  age  I  came  into  an  income  of  some  five 
thousand  a  year.  So,  my  proud  little  Barbara,  if  my  worthy 
stepfather  sees  fit  to  disinherit  me,  you  and  I,  I  think,  can 
manage  to  exist  on  that  I  " 

"  Oh,  Leicester,  can  you  mean  all  this  ?  "  ' 

"  Much  more  than  this,  Barbara.  And  now  let  me  hear 
you  say  you  love  me !  "  - 

She  lifted  up  to  his  a  face  transformed  and  pale  with  in- 
tense joy ;  but,  ere  she  could  answer,  a  voice,  solemn  and 
sweet,  rose  from  the  grave  under  their  feet : 

"  Barbara,  beware  1  " 

The  words  she  would  have  uttered  died  out  on  Barbara's 
lips,  aiid  she  started  back  with  a  suppressed  shriek.  Leices- 
ter, too,  recoiled,  and  looked  round  him  in  wonder. 


134        I'HE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CI.II^?E. 


'•  wnat  was  that?  Where  did  that  voice  come  from, 
Barbara?" 

"  From  the  grave,  I  think  !  "  said  Barbara,  turning  white, 

Leicester  looked  at  her,  and  seeing  she  was  perfectly  in 
earnest,  broke  out  into  a  fit  of  boyish  laughter. 

"  From  the  grave  !  Oh,  what  an  idea.  But,  Barbara,  I 
am  waiting  to  hear  whether  or  not  I  am  to  be  an  accepted 
lover." 

Again  the  radiant  look  came  over  Barbara's  face,  again 
she  turned  to  answer,  and  again  arose  the  voice  so  solemn 
and  so  sad : 
.   "  Beware,  Barbara  1  " 

"This  is  some  devilish  tr okl  "  exclaimed  Leicester,  pas- 
sionately dashing  off  through  the  trees.  "  Some  one  is  eaves- 
dropping ;  and  if  I  catch  them  I'll  smash  every  bone  in  their 
body ! " 

Barbara,  white  as  a  marble  statue,  and  nearly  as  cold, 
stood,  looking  down  in  horror  at  the  Nun's  Grave,  until 
Leicester  returned,  flushed  and  heated,  after  his  impetuous 
and  fruitless  search. 

"  I  could  see  no  one,  but  I  am  convinced  some  one  has 
been  listening,  and  hid,  as  I  Started  in  pursuit.  And  now, 
Barbara,  in  spite  of  men  or  demons,  tell  me  that  you  love 
me !  " 

She  held  out  both  her  hands. 
.    "  Oh,  Leicester,  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart !  " 

In  her  tone,  in  her  look,  there  was  something  so  strangely 
solemn  that  he  caught  the  infection,  and  raising  the  prof- 
fered hands  to  his  lips,  he  said : 

"  My  own  Barbara  !  When  I  prove  false  to  you,  I  pray 
God  that  I  may  die  !  " 

"  Amen  !  "  said  Barbara,  with  terrible  earnestness,  while 
from  her  dark  eyes  there  shot  for  a  moment  a  glance  so 
fierce,  that  he  half-dropped  her  hands  in  his  surprise. 

**  But  I  shall  never  be  false  I  "  he  said,  recovering  himself, 
and  believing  at  the  moment  what  he  said  was  true  ;  "  true 
as  the  needle  to  the  North  Star  shall  I  be  to  the  lady  I  love. 
See  1  I  shall  be  romantic  for  once,  and  make  this  old  elm  a 
memorial,  that  will  convince  you  it  is  not  all  a  di  jam  when  I 
am  gone.  It  has  stood  hundreds  of  years,  perhaps,  and  may 
stand  hundreds  more,  as  a  symbol  of  our  deathless  faith  I  " 


THE  WARNING. 


135 


Half-laughingly,  half-earnestly,  he  took  from  his  pocket  a 
dainty  penknife,  and  with  one  sharp,  blue  blade  began  carv- 
ing their  united  initials  on  the  bark  of  the  hoary  old  elm, 
waving  over  the  Nun's  Grave.  "  L.  S.  C,"  and  underneath 
"  B.  B.,"  the  whole  encircled  by  a  carved  wreath  ;  and  as  he 
finished  a  great  drop  of  rain  fell  en  his  glittering  blade. 
He  looked  up,  and  saw  that  the  whoie  sky  had  blackened. 

"  There  is  going  to  be  a  storm  !  '  he  exclaimed.  "  And 
how  suddenly  it  has  arisen  !  Come,  Barbara,  we  will  scarcely 
have  time  to  reach  the  cottage  before  it  breaks." 

Barbara  stopped  for  a  moment  to  kiss  the  wetted  initials ; 
and  then  as  the  rain-drops  began  to  fall  thick  and  fast,  she 
flew  along  the  avenue,  keeping  up  with  his  long  man-strides, 
and  in  ten  minutes  reached  the  cottage,  panting  and  out  of 
breath.  Old  Judith  stood  in  the  doorway  looking  for  her,  so 
there  was  no  chance  of  sentimental  leave-taking  ;  but  looks 
often  do  wonderfully  in  such  cases,  and  two  pairs  of  eyes 
embraced  at  the  cottage-door,  and  said,  good-by. 

The  lightning  leaped  out  like  a  two-edged  sword  as  Bar- 
bara hastened  to  her  room  and  sat  down  by  the  window. 
This  window  commanded  a  view  of  the  tea  and  the  marshes 
— the  one  black  and  turbid,  and  moaning ;  the  other,  blurred 
and  sodden  with  the  rushing  rain.  And  "  Oh,  he  will  be 
out  in  all  this  storm  1 "  cried  Barbara's  heart,  as  she  watched 
the  rain  and  the  lightning,  and  listened  to  the  rumbling 
thunder,  until  the  dark  evening  wore  away,  and  was  lost  in 
the  darker  and  stormier  night.  Still  it  rained,  still  it  light- 
ened and  thundered,  and  the  sea  roared  over  the  rocks,  and 
still  Barbara  sat  at  the  window,  with  her  long  hair  streaming 
around  her,  and  her  soul  full  of  a  joy  too  intense  for  sleep. 

With  the  night  passed  the  storm,  and  up  rose  the  sun,  usher- 
ing in  a  new-born  day  to  the  restless  world.  Barbara  was 
up  as  soon  as  the  sun,  and  walking  under  the  dripping  boughs, 
along  the  drenched  grass  to  the  place  of  tryst.  But  the 
lightning  had  been  before  her ;  for  there,  across  the  Nun's 
Grave,  lay  the  old  elm — the  emblem  of  their  endless  love— 
a  blackened  and  blasted  ruin.  '  ' 


136        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTILE  CI^IFFE. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


THE  SHADOW  IN  BLACK. 


Old  Judith,  when  not  sitting  in  the  corner,  smoking,  had 
a  habit  of  standing  in  the  doorway,  taking  an  observation 
of  all  that  passed  in  Lower  Cliffe.  She  stood  there  now, 
while  the  sun  set  behind  the  golden  Sussex  hills,  with  a 
black  silk  handkerchief  knotted  under  her  wrinkled  chin,  and 
her  small  keen  eyes  shaded  by  her  hand,  peering  over  the 
sparkling  sea.  On  the  sands,  in  the  crimson  glow  of  the^ 
sunset,  the  fishermen  who  had  been  out  all  (^lay  were  draw- 
ing up  their  boats  on  the  shore,  and  among  them  Mr.  Peter 
Black,  with  a  tarpaulin  hat  on  his  head,  and  noisy  fishy  oil- 
cloth jacket  and  trousers  to  match,  was  coming  up  the  rocky 
road  to  supper. 

Old  Judith,  on  seeing  him,  turned  hastily  into  the  cottage, 
grumbling  as  she  went,  and  began  arranging  the  table. 
There  was  no  one  in  the  house  but  herself,  and  the  room  did 
not  look  particularly  neat  or  inviting;  for  Barbara,  lazy 
beauty,  liked  far  better  to  dream  over  novels  and  wander 
through  the  beautiful  grounds  of  the  castle  than  to  sweep 
floors  and  wash  dishes,  and  old  Judith  was  fonder  of  smok- 
ing and  gossiping  than  paying  any  attention  to  these  little 
household  matters  herself.  So,  when  Mr.  Black  entered  his 
roof-tree,  he  found  chairs  and  tables,  and  stools  and  pots, 
and  kettles  and  pails,  all  higgle-piggledy  over  the  floor,  as  if 
these  household  gods  had  been  dancing  a  fandango  ;  and  his 
appearance,  perfuming  the  air  with  a  most  ancient  and  fish- 
like smell,  did  not  at  all  improve  matters.  ' 

Judith's  sotto  voce  grumblings  broke  into  an  outcry  the  mo- 
ment she  found  a  listener. 

"  It's  just  gone  seven  by  the  sun-dial  at  the  park-gates  1  " 
she  cried  shrilly,  "  and  that  girl  has  been  gone  since  sunrise, 
and  never  put  her  nose  inside  the  door  since." 


THE  SHADOW  IN  BI^ACK. 


n't 


"  What  girl — Barbara  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Black,  pulling  a 
clasped  knife  out  of  his  pocket,  and  falling  to  his  supper  of 
bread,  and  beef,  and  beer. 

«'  To  be  sure  it's  Barbara — a  lazy,  undutiful,  disrespectful 
minx  as  ever  lived  !  There  she  goes,  gadding  about  from 
one  week's  end  to  t'other,  with  her  everlasting  novels  in  her 
hand,  or  strumming  on  that  trashy  old  guitar  Lawyer  Sweet 
was  fool  enough  to  give  her,  among  the  rocks.  Her  stock- 
ings may  be  full  of  holes,  her  dress  may  be  torn  to  tatters, 
the  house  may  be  dirty  enough  to  plant  cabbage  in,  and  I 
may  scold  till  all  is  blue,  and  she  don't  care  a  straw  for  one 
of  'em,  but  gives  snappish  answers,  and  goes  on  twice  as 
bad  as  before."  "■ 

"  Can't  you  talk  in  the  house,  mother?  "  gruffly  insinuated 
Mr.  Black,  with  his  mouth  full,  as  the  old  woman's  voice 
rose  in  her  anger  to  a  perfect  squeal.  "  You  needn't  make 
the  village  think  you're  being  murdered  about  it." 

"  Needn't  I  ? "  said  Judith,  her  voice  rising  an  octave 
higher.  "  I  might  be  murdered,  and  she  go  to  Old  Nick, 
where  she  is  going  as  fast  as  she  can,  for  all  you  care.  But 
I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Peter  Black,  if  you-re  a  fool,  I'm  not ; 
and  I  won't  see  my  granddaughter  going  to  perdition  with- 
out raising  my  voice  against  it,  and  so  I  tell  you !  " 

Peter  Black  laid  down  the  pewter-pot  he  was  raising  to 
his  lips,  and  turned  to  his  tender  mother  with  an  inquiring 
scowl : 

"  What  do  you  mean,  you  old  screech-owl,  flying  at  a 
man  like  the  devil,  the  moment  he  sets  his  foot  inside  the 
door  ?  Has.  Barbara  stuck  you,  or  anybody  else,  that  you're 
raving  mad  like  this  ?  Lord  knows,"  said  Mr.  Black,  resum- 
ing his  supper,  "  if  she  let  a  little  of  that  spare  breath  out 
of  you  I  shouldn't  be  sorry." 

"  There'll  be  a  little  spare  breath  let  out  of  somebody 
afore  long  !  "  screeched  the  old  lady,  clawing  the  air  viciously 
with  her  skinny  fingers,  "  and  it  won't  be  me.  I  told  you 
before,  and  I  tell  ycu  again,  that  girl's  going  to  Old  Nick  as 
fast  as  she  can,  and  perhaps  when  you  see  her  there,  and  it's 
too  late,  you'll  begin  to  think  about  it.  Her  pride,  and  her 
bad  temper,  and  the  airs  she  gave  herself  about  her  red 
cheeks,  and  her  dark  eyes,  and  her  long  hair,  and  the  learn- 
ing she's  managed  to  get,  weren't  bad  enough,  but  now  she's 


i 


I 


I  .<, 


138       THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CUFFB).   :    ; 

fell  in  with  that  bescented,  pale-faced,  high  and  mighty  popin- 
jay from  foreign  parts,  and  they're  together  morning,  noon 
and  night.  And  now,"  reiterated  old  Judith,  turning  still 
more  fiercely  on  her  scowling  son,  **  what  good  is  likely  to 
come  of  a  fisherman's  daughter  and  a  baronet's  son  and  heir 
being  together  for  everlastin'  ? — what  good  ?  I  ask  you  your- 
self." -   .  ' 

Mr.  Peter  Black  laid  down  his  knife,  opened  his  eyes,  and 
pricked  up  his  ears. 

"  Hey  ?  "  he  inquired.  "  What  the  demon  are  you  driv- 
ing at  now,  mother  ?  " 

"  Do  you  know  Sir  Roland  Cliffe,  of  Cliffewood  ?  Answer 
me  that." 

"  To  be  sure  I  do." 

"  And  do  you  know  that  fine  gentleman  with  all  the  grand 
airs,  Mr.  Leicester  Cliffe,  his  stepson  ? " 

"  What's  the  old  woman  raving  about  ?  "  exclaimed  Mr. 
Black,  with  an  impatient  appeal  to  the  elements.  "  I've  seen 
Mr.  Leicester  Cliffe,  and  that's  all  I  know  about  him,  or  want 
to.     What  the  deuce  has  he  to  do  with  it  ? " 

"  Oh,  nothing,  of  course.  Ever  since  he  came  here  last 
May-day,  two  weeks  gone,  he  and  your  daughter  have  been 
thicker  than  pickpockets — that's  all.  Only  a  trifle,  you 
know — not  worth  worreting  about." 

"  Weil  ?  "  said  Mr.  Black,  fixing  his  eyes  on  her  with  a 
powerful  expression. 

And  the  old  woman  ran  on  with  fierce  volubility : 

"  No  longer  ago  than  last  night,  they  came  home  together 
at  dark ;  and  she  was  off  and  away  this  morning  at  daydawn, 
to  meet  him  again,  of  course.  It's  been  the  same  thing  ever 
sine''  May-day ;  and  she's  so  savage  nobody  dare  say  a  word 
to  her  ;  and  you're  as  thick-headed  as  a  mule,  and  couldn't 
see  water  if  you  went  to  the  sea-side  !  Everybody  else  sees 
it,  and  she's  the  town's  talk  by  this  time.  Mr,  Sweet  sees 
it  ;  and  by  the  s?me  token,  she  treats  Mr.  Sweet  as  if  he 
were  the  dirt  u^der  her  feet.  You  know  very  well  he  wants 
her  to  marry  him — him  that  might  have  the  pick  of  the 
parish — and  she  holds  her  head  up  in  the  air,  and  sneers  at 
him  for  his  pains,  the  ungrateful  hussy." 

"  Look  here,  mother !  "  said  Mr.  Black,  turning  round, 
with  the  blue  blade  of  the  knife  gleaming  in  his  hand,  and  a 


I 


THK  SHADOW  IN  BI^ACK. 


139 


:r 


horrible  light  shining  in  his  eyes,  "  I  know  what's  in  the 
wind  now,  and  all  that  you're  afraid  of,  so  just  listen  1  I'm 
proud  of  my  girl ;  she's  handsome  and  high-stepping,  and 
holds  her  head  above  everybody,  far  and  near,  and  I'm 
proud  of  her  for  it ;  I'm  fond  of  her,  too,  though  I  mayn't 
show  it ;  and  if  there's  anything  in  this  cursed  world  I  care 
for,  it's  her ;  but  I  would  rather  see  her  dead  and  buried  — 
I  would  rather  see  her  the  miserable  cast-off  wretch  you  are 
thinking  of — than  the  rich  wife  of  that  black-hearted,  double- 
dyed  hypocrite,  liar  and  scoundrel,  Sweet.  I  would,  by  —  I  " 
cried  Mr.  Black,  with  an  awful  oath,  plunging  his  knife  into 
the  hump  of  cold  beef,  as  if  it  were  the  boiled  heart  of  the 
snake,  Mr.  Sweet. 

With  the  last  imprecation  yet  on  his  lips,  a  clear  girlish 
voice  was  heard  without,  singing  the  good  old  English  tune 
of  "  Money  Musk,"  and  the  door  suddenly  opened,  and  Bar- 
bara, who  never  sung  of  late,  stood,  with  the  tune  on  her 
lips,  before  them.  The  long,  dark  hair,  unbound  and  di- 
sheveled by  the  strong  sea-breeze,  floated  in  i7.iost  becoming 
disorder  over  her  shoulders ;  her  cheeks  were  like  scarlet 
rose-berries ;  her  dark  eyes  dancing,  her  red  lips  breaking 
into  smiles  like  a  happy  child ;  she  fairly  filled  the  dreary 
and  disorderly  room  with  the  light  of  her  splendid  beauty. 
Mother  and  son  turned  toward  her — one  wrathful  and  men- 
acing, the  other  with  a  sort  of  savage  pi:ide  and  affection. 

"  So  you've  come  at  last  I  "  broke  out  old  Judith  in  her 
shrillest  falsetto,  "  after  being  gadding  about  since  early 
morning,  you  slovenly " 

"  Oh,  grandmother,  don't  scold  1 "  exclaimed  Barbara,  who 
v/as  a  great  deal  too  happy  and  full  of  hope  to  bear  anger 
and  scolding  just  then.  "  I  will  clear  up  this  room  for  you 
in  five  minutes ;  and  I  don't  want  any  supper ;  I  had  it  up 
at  the  lodge." 

"  Oh,  you  were  up  at  the  lodge,  and  with  Mr.  Leicester 
Cliffe,  of  course  ?  " 

Barbara  flushed  to  the  temples,  more  at  her  grandmother's 
tone  than  words,  and  her  eyes  flashed  fire  ;  but  for  once  she 
restrained  herself.  -  '   ^v 

"  No,  I  wasn't,  grandmother.  Mr.  Cliflfe  left  for  London  on 
the  first  train  this  morning.'*         .,      . 

Old  Judith  sneered.  V?    :".;•. ^ 


|!l| 


ril  ' 


P 


Pi! 
I:  «l 


■|i 


|!:;i 


140       THE  HKIRKS5  OF  CASTI.E  CUFEK. 

"  You  seem  to  loiow  all  about  Mr.  Cliffe's  doings.  Of 
course  he  told  you  that,  a  i  bade  you  good-by,  when  you 
were  caught  so  nicely  in  the  rain  last  night." 

Barbara  compressed  her  lips  in  rising  wrath,  but  she  went 
on  steadily  arranging  stools  and  chairs  in  silence.  Old 
Judith,  however,  was  not  to  be  mollified. 

"  Now  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  my  lady,  you  had  better  bring 
these  fine  goings-on  to  an  end,  and  let  Mr.  Leicester  Cliffe  go 
gallanting  round  the  country  with  grand  folks  like  himself, 
while  you  mend  your  father's  nets  and  keep  his  house  clean. 
There  is  Mr.  Sweet  been  here  looking  for  you  half  a  dozen 
times  to-day,  and  a  pretty  thing  for  him  to  hear  that  you  had 
been  away  since  daylight,  nobody  knew  where,  but  Mr.  Lei- 
cester Cliffe,  perhaps,  and " 

But  here  Barbara's  brief  thread  of  patience  snapped  short, 
and  with  an  expression  of  ungovernable  anger,  she  flung  the 
chair  she  held  in  her  hand  against  the  wall,  and  was  out  of 
the  house  in  an  instant,  slamming  the  door  after  her  with  a 
most  sonorous  bang.  Before  she  had  run — as  she  was 
doing  in  her  excitement — five  yards,  she  heard  a  heavy  step 
behind  her,  and  a  voice  close  at  her  ear  singing,  "  Oh  1  there's 
nothing  half  so  sweet  in  life  as  Love's  youn^f  dream  I  "  It 
made  her  turn  and  behold  the  sunshiny  figure  and  smiling 
face  of  Mr.  Sv;eet. 

"  Home  at  last,  Miss  Barbara  !  I  have  been  at  least  half 
a  dozen  times  to-day  in  the  cottage,  thinking  you  were  lost  I  " 

*'  You  give  yourself  a  great  deal  of  unnecessary  trouble, 
Mr.  Sweet." 

"  Nothing  done  for  you  can  be  any  trouble,  Miss  Barbara, 
I  hope  you've  spent  a  pleasant  day." 

"  Thank  you." 

"  This  evening  wind  is  cool,  and  you  have  no  shawl ;  shall 
I  not  go  to  the  house  and  bring  you  one  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  don't  need  it." 

"  Miss  Barbara,  how  cold  you  are  1  I  wonder  what  kind 
of  a  shawl  would  warm  your  manner  to  me  1  " 

Miss  Barbara,  leaning  against  a  tall  rock,  was  looking 
over  a  darkening  sea,  with  a  face  that  might  have  been  cut 
out  of  the  solid  stone,  for  all  the  emotion  it  expressed.  The 
crimson  and  purple  billows  of  sunset  had  faded  away  into  the 
dim  gray  gloaming,  pierced  with  bright  white  stars,  and  the. 


THE  SHADOW  IN  BI^ACK. 


141 


waning  May  moon  was  lifting  her  silver  crescent  over  the 
murmuring  waves.  The  fishing-boats  went  dancing  in  and 
out  in  the  shining  path  it  made  across  the  waters  ;  and  Bar- 
bara, with  her  long  hair  fluttering  behind  her  in  the  wind, 
watched  them  with  her  cold,  beautiful  eyes,  and  heeded  the 
man  beside  her  no  more  than  the  rock  against  which  she 
leaned. 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  and  then  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  with  a  slight  smile. 

"  Leicester  Cliff e  left  town  this  morning  for  London,  did 
he  not?  "  he  asked,  at  leng^^h,  abruptly. 

"  I  believe  so." 

•*  Is  that  the  cause  of  your  gloom  and  silence  to-night  ?  " 

Barbara  turned  impetuously  round  with  a  dangerous  fire 
in  her  great  dark  eyes. 

"  Mr.  Sweet,  take  care  what,  you  are  saying.  You  will 
oblige  me  exceedingly  by  going  about  your  own  affairs,  what- 
ever they  may  be,  and  leaving  me  alone.  I  didn't  ask  your 
company  here,  and  I  don't  want  it !  "  ^    . ,. 

Mr.  Sweet  smiled  good-naturedly. 

•'  But  when  I  want  you  so  much,  Miss  Barbara,  what  does 
a  little  reluctance  on  your  part  signify  1  Two  weeks  ago,  on 
the  morning  of  May-day — you  remember  May-day — I  did 
myself  the  honor  to  ask  you  for  this  fair  hand." 

'*  And  received  No  for  r.i:  answer.  I  hope  you  remember 
that  also,  Mr.  Sweet." 

"  Distinctly,  Miss  Barbara  ;  yst  in  two  weeks  your  mind  may 
have  changed ;  and  if  so,  here  I  to-night  renew  the  offer," 

"  You  are  very  kind ;  but  I  have  only  the  trouble  of  say- 
ing No  over  again." 

"  Barbara,  stop  and  think.  I  love  you.  I  am  a  rich  man 
— richer  than  most  people  imagine — and  I  think,  without 
flattering  myself,  there  are  few  girls  in  Cliftonlea  who  would 
not  hesitate  about  refusing  me.  Barbara,  pause  before  you 
throw  away  so  good  an  offer." 

"  There  is  no  need.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  feel  honored 
by  your  preference ;  but  I  don't  in  the  least,  and  that  is-*- 
the  truth.  You  may  make  any  of  the  Cliftonlea  young  ladies 
happy  by  so  brilliant  an  offer,  if  you  choose  ;  and  I  promise 
to  go  to  her  wedding,  if  she  asks  me,  without  feeling  the 
least  jealousy  at  her  good  fortune.' 


it 


1 


142        THE  HKIRKSS  OF  CASTLE  CUFFE. 

"  You  are  sarcastic,  and  yet  I  think  there  are  some  feel- 
ings— gratitude,  for  instance — that  should  make  you  treat 
me  and  my  offer  with  at  least  decent  respect." 

•'  Gratitude  1  "  said  Barbara,  fixing  her  large  dark  eyes 
with  a  strong  glance  on  his  face.  *•  I  don't  owe  you  any- 
thing, Mr.  Sweet.  No,  don't  interrupt  me,  if  you  please.  I 
know  what  you  would  say,  that  I  owe  all  the  home  I  have 
known  for  the  last  two  years  to  ycu  and  that  you  rescued  me 
from  a  life  of  hardship,  and  perhaps  degradation.  Well, 
I've  betii  told  that  so  often  by  you,  that  I  have  ceased  to 
think  it  a  favor ;  and  as  from  the  first  it  was  your  own 
pleasure  to  do  so,  without  my. will  or  request,  I  consider  I'm 
not  indebted  to  you  the  value  of  a  farthing.  As  to  educa- 
tion and  all  that,  you  know  as  well  as  I  do,  that  Colonel 
Cliffe  sent  me  to  the  Town  Academy,  and  provided  me  with 
everything  while  there.  So,  Mr.  Sweet,  don't  talk  of  grati- 
tude any  more,  if  you  and  I  are  to  be  friends." 

While  she  spoke,  in  a  voice  clear  and  low,  with  a  ringing 
tone  of  command  and  a  warning  fire  in  her  eye,  Mr.  Sweet 
watched  her  with  the  same  quiet,  provoking  smile.  In  her 
beauty  and  in  her  pride  she  towered  above  him,  and  flung 
back  his  gifts  like  stones,  in  his  face. 

"  And  when  is  it  to  be  ? "  he  asked,  when  ohe  ceased. 

"  What  ?  *' 

"  Your  marriage  with  the  heir  of  Sir  Roland  Cliffe." 

Even  in  the  moonlight,  he  saw  the  scarlet  rush  that  dyed 
face  and  neck,  and  the  short  half-stifled  breath. 

"  This  is  your  revenge  1  "  she  said,  calmly,  and  waving 
him  away,  with  the  air  of  an  outraged  queen  •,  "  but  go — go, 
and  never  speak  to  me  again  1  " 

"  Not  even  when  you  are  Lady  Cliffe  ?  "  - 

"  Go  1 "  she  said,  fiercely,  and  stamping  her  foot.  "  Go, 
or  I  shall  make  you  1 "  '  , 

"  Only  one  moment.  When  there  are  two  moons  in 
yonder  sky ;  when  you  can  dip  up  all  the  water  in  the  sea 
before  us  with  a  teaspoon ;  when  *  Birnam  wood  will  come 
to  Dunsinane ; '  then — then  Leicester  Cliffe  will  marry  Bar- 
bara Black  !  I  have  said  you  will  be  my  wife ;  and,  sooner 
or  later,  that  time  will  come.  Meantime,  proud  and  pretty 
Barbara,  good  night.'' 

Taking  off  his  beaver,  he  bowed  low,  and  with  the  smile 


II 

|e 
le 


i       : 


THE  SHADOW  IN  BI^ACK. 


143 


sdll  on   his  lips,  walked  away  in  the  moonlight — not  only 
smiling,  but  singing,  and  Barbara  distinctly  heard  the  words  : 

"  So  long  as  he's  constant, 
So  long  1*11  prove  true  ; 
And  then  if  he  changes,  .     , ',,  ..- 

Why,  so  can  I,  too." 

Barbara  sank  down  on  the  rock  and  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands,  outraged,  ashamed,  indignant;  and  yet,  in  the 
midst  of  all,  with  a  sharp,  keen  pain  aching  in  her  heart. 
She  had  been  so  hapi^  all  that  day — beloved,  loving,  and 
trusting — thinking  herself  standing  on  a  rock,  and  finding  it 
crumbling  to  dust  and  ashes.  Oh,  why  had  they  not  let  her 
alone  ?  Why  had  they  not  let  her  hope  and  be  happy  ?  If 
Leicester  proved  false,  she  felt  as  though  she  should  die ; 
and  half-hating  herself  for  believing  for  a  moment  he  could 
change,  she  sprang  up  and  darted  off  with  a  fleet  light  step 
toward  the  still  open  park-gates — determined  to  visit  once 
more  the  trysting-place,  and  reassure  herself  there  that  their 
mutual  love  was  not  all  an  illusion.  She  never  thought  of 
the  ghostly  voice  in  her  excitement,  as  she  walked  up  the 
moonlit  avenue  and  down  the  gloomy  lane,  toward  the  fallen 
elm.  The  pale  moon's  rays  came  glancing  faintly  through 
the  slanting  leaves ;  and  kneeling  down  beside  it,  she  saw 
the  united  initials  his  hand  had  carved,  and  the  girl  clasped 
her  hands  in  renewed  hope  ind  joy. 

"  He  is  true  1 "  she  cried,  to  her  heart.  "  He  will  be  faith- 
ful and  true  to  me  forever  1  " 

"  He  is  false  I  "  said  a  low  solemn  voice  from  the  grave 
on  which  she  knelt ;  and,  starting  up  with  a  suppressed  shriek, 
Barbara  found  herself  face  to  face  with  an  awful  vision. 

A  nun,  supernaturally  tall,  all  in  black  and  white,  stood 
directly  opposite,  with  the  grave  and  the  fallen  elm  between 
them.  Without  noise  or  movement,  it  was  before  her ;  how, 
or  from  whence  it  came,  impossible  to  tell;  its  tall  head 
see.ning  in  the  shadowy  moonlight  to  reach  nearly  to  the 
tree-tops,  in  a  long,  straight  nun's  dress,  a  black  nun's  veil,  a 
white  band  over  the  forehead,  and  another  over  the  throat 
and  breast.  The  moon's  rays  fell  distinctly  on  the  face  of 
deadly  whiteness,  and  with  two  stony  eyes  shining  men- 
acingly under  bent  and  stern  brows.  Barbara  stood  stupefied, 
spellbound,  speechless.     The  figure  raised  its  shrouded  arm, 


144        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CUFFE. 

and  pointing  at  her  with  one  flickering  finger,  the  voide  again 
rose  from  the  grave,  for  the  white  lips  of  the  specter  moved 
not. 

"  Thrice  have  you  been  warned,  and  thrice  have  you 
spurned  the  warning  I  Your  good  angel  weeps,  and  the 
doom  is  gathering  thick  and  dark  overhead  1  Once  more, 
Barbara,  beware  I  " 

Still  Barbara  stood  mute,  white  almost  as  the  specter,  with 
supernatural  terror.  With  shrouded  arm  and  flickering 
finger  still  pointing  toward  her,  the  ghostly  nun  gazed  it  her, 
while  the  sad,  solemn  voice  rose  again  from  the  grave. 

"  You  love,  and  think  you  are  beloved  in  return,  oh,  rash, 
infatuated  child  1  Spurn  every  thought  of  him  as  you  would 
a  deadly  viper ;  for  there  is  ruin,  there  is  misery,  there  is 
death,  in  his  love  I  " 

*'  Be  it  so,  then  1  "  cried  Barbara,  wildly,  finding  voice  in 
a  sort  of  frantic  desperation  ;  "  better  death  with  him  than 
life  with  another  I  " 

"  Barbara,  be  warned,  for  your  doom  is  at  hand  I  "  said 
the  unseen  voice.  And  as  it  spoke,  the  moon  was  lost  in 
shadow,  a  dark  cloud  shrouded  the  gloomy  grave  and  the 
black  shape.  There  was  a  quick  and  angry  rush  as  it 
vanished  among  the  trees,  and  the  whole  night  seemed  to 
blacken  as  it  passed. 


i 


I 


»t 


THE  ROSE  OF  SUSSEX. 


145 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


THE    ROSE    OF    SUSSEX. 


While  Barbara  hf  i)ed  and  Barbara  feared,  Leicester 
Cliflfe  was  whirling  away  as  fast  as  the  steam-eagle  cbuld 
carry  him  toward  London  and  his  promised  bride.  And  the 
same  white  crescent  moon  that  saw  her  standing  at  the 
trysting-place,  came  peering  through  the  closed  shutters  of 
a  West-End  hotel,  and  saw  that  young  gentleman  standing 
before  a  swing-glass,  making  a  most  elaborate  and  faultless 
toilet.  A  magnificent  watch,  set  with  brilliants,  that  lay  on 
the  dressing-table  before  him,  was  pointing  its  golden  hands 
to  the  hour  of  eleven,  when  there  came  a  rap  at  the  door, 
and,  opening  it,  Mr.  Cliflfe  was  confronted  by  a  tall  waiter, 
with  a  card  in  his  hand. 

"  Show  the  gentleman  up,"  said  Leicester,  glancing  at  it, 
and  going  on  with  his  toilet.  And  two  minutes  auer,  a 
quick,  impetuous,  noisy  step  was  taking  the  stairs  live  at  a 
time,  and  Tom  Shirley,  flushed,  excited  and  breathless,  as 
usual,  'itood  before  him. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  how  goes  it  ?  "  was  his  cry,  seizing  his 
cousin's  hand  with  a  grip  that  made  him  wince.  "  I  should 
have  been  here  ages  ago,  only  I  never  received  your  note 
until  within  the  last  ten  minutes  I  I  was  at  the  opera,  and 
had  just  come  to  my  lodgings  to  spread  myself  out  in  gor- 
geous array  for  the  ball,  when  I  found  your  letter,  and  came 
steaming  up  here  without  a  second's  loss  of  time.  When 
did  you  come  ?  And  are  you  going  to  make  one  in  my  lady's 
crush  to-night  ? " 

"  Sit  down  I  "  was  Leicester's  nonchalant  reply  to  this 
breathless  outburst.  "  I  had  given  you  up  in  despair,  and 
was  about  starting  on  my  own  responsibility.  What  brought 
you  to  the  opera,  to-night  ? " 

"  Oh,  this  is  the  last  night  of  the  brightest  star  of  the 


\  ^ 


V^ 


146       THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CUFFE. 

season  ;  and  besides,  we  are  time  enough  for  the  ball.  How 
long  before  ycu  have  finished  making  yourself  resplendent  ?  " 

"  I  have  finished  now.     Come  1  " 

Tom,  who  had  just  seated  himself,  jumped  up,  and  led  the 
way  down-stairs,  five  at  a  time,  as  before,  and,  on  reaching 
the  pavement,  drew  out  a  cigar-case,  offered  it  to  his  com- 
panion, lit  one,  and  then,  taking  the  other*s  arm,  marched 
him  off  briskly. 

"  We  won't  call  a  cab — they're  nothing  but  bores  ;  and  *  's 
not  ten  minutes'  walk  to  Shirley  House.  How  did  you  leave 
all  the  good  people  in  Cliftonlea — Sir  Roland  among  the 
rest?" 

"  Sir  Roland  has  liad  the  gout ;  otherwise  I  believe  he's 
had  nothing  to  complain  of." 

"  Well,  that's  a  good  old  family  disorder  we  must  all  come 
to  in  the  fulness  of  time.     Was  it  to-day  you  arrived  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Lady  Agnes  was  good  enough  to  send  me  a  press- 
ing invite  to  .this  grand  ball  of  hers,  and,  of  course  there 
was  novhing  for  it  bnl  obedience." 

"  You  must  have  found  life  in  Cliftonlea  awfully  slow  for 
the  last  two  weeks,"  said  Tom,  with  an  energetic  puff  at  his 
cigar.     "  What  did  you  do  with  yourself  all  the  time  ?  " 

Leicester  laughed.  »-  •  •  '     v   •  i 

"  So  many  things  that  it  would  puzzle  me  to  recount  them. 
Shocicing,  fishing,  riding,  boating " 

"  With  a  little  courting  in  between  whiles  I  "  interrupted 
Tom,  with  gravity.     "  How  did  you  leave  little  Barbara  ? " 

Leicester  Cliffe  took  his  cigar  from  his  lips,  and  knocked 
the  white  end  off  carefully  with  his  finger. 

"  Ashes  to  ashes,  eh  ?     I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"  Don't  you  ?  Oh,  you  are  an  artless  youth  I  Perhaps 
you  think  I  don't  know  how  steep  you  have  been  coming  it 
with  our  pretty  May  Queen ;  but  don't  trouble  yourself  to 
invent  any  little  fictions  about  it,  for  I  know  the  whole  thing 
from  beginning  to  end  I  " 

"  What  do  you  know  ?  "  •     " 

"  That  you  have  been  fooling  that  little  girl,  and  I  won't 
have  it  I  Oh,  you  needn't  fire  up.  Barbara  is  a  great 
friend  of  mine,  and  you  will  just  have  the  goodness  to  let 
her  alone  1  " 

"  Pshaw  I  what  nonsense  is  all  this  ? " 


^1 

2?! 


••* 


THE  ROSE  OF  SUSSEX. 


H7 


"  Is  it  nonsense  ? "  :  - 

"  Yes.     Who  has  been  talking  to  you  ? " 

"  One  who  is  too  old  a  bird  to  be  caught  with  chaff. 
Fred  Douglas,  of  the  Dragoons — he  came  up  here  to  London 
a  week  ago."  • 

"  I'll  put  a  stray  bullet  through  Fred  Douglas'  head,  and 
teach  him  to  hold  his  tongue,  and  yours,  too,  my  good 
cousin,  if  you  take  it  upon  yourself  to  lecture  me.  How 
are  all  the  Shirleys  ?  " 

"  Tolerable.  Lady  Agnes  is  up  to  her  eyes  in  the  busi- 
ness of  balls  and  receptions,  and  concerts,  and  matinees. 
The  colonel  has  been  voted  un  «nimously  by  all  the  young 
ladies  of  Belgrave  Square  a  love  of  a  man,  and  Vic  is  all  the 
rage,  and  has  turned  more  heads  and  declined  more  offers 
this  winter  thait  you  or  I  could  count  in  a  week.  The  Rose 
of  Sussex  is  the  toast  of  the  town  I  " 

"  Indeed  !  And  at  the  head  of  her  list  of  her  killed  an 
wounded  stands  the  name  of  Tom  Shirley." 

Tom  winced  perceptibly. 

"  Precisely  1  And  I'll  wager  my  diamond  ring  that  yours 
is  there,  too,  before  the  end  of  a  week." 

"  Is  she  so  pretty,  then  ?  " 

"  Pretty  I  That's  a  nice  word  to  apply  to  the  belle  of 
London.     Here  we  are,  and  you  will  soon  see  for  yourself." 

A  long  file  of  carriages  was  drawn  up  before  the  door  of 
Shirley  House,  and  a  crowd  of  servants  in  livery  were  flitting 
busily  hither  and  thither.  Some  of  the  guests  were  just 
passing  into  the  great  lighted  hall,  but,  instead  of  follov/ing 
their  example,  Ten  drew  his  companion  toward  a  deserted 
side-door. 

"  We  won't  go  in  there  and  have  our  names  bawled  by  the 
flunkeys,  and  be  stared  at  as  we  enter  by  a  hundred  pairs  of 
eyes.  I  know  all  the  ins  and  outs  of  this  place,  and  thefc's  a 
private  way  that  will  bring  us  to  the  ballroom,  where  you 
can  have  a  good  look  at  the  Rose  of  Sussex  before  you  are 
presented  to  her  in  form." 

He  rung,  as  he  spK)ke,  the  bell  of  the  side-door,  and  on  its 
being  opened  by  a  liveried  slave,  he  led  the  way  through  the 
marble  hall  up  a  wide  and  balustraded  staircase,  through 
several  empty  rooms  and  passages,  all  sumptuously  fitted  up, 
and  echoing  with  the  sounds  of  distant  music  and  merry- 


'  -1 


I 


■ 

1,1 


w^ 


148       THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTILE  CUFFE. 

makings  and  finally  into  a  great  conservatory,  with  the  moon* 
light  streaming  through  two  large  arched  windows,  which 
opened  into  a  forsaken  music-room,  which  opened  into  the 
crowded  ballroom.  There  v/as  no  door  between  the  music 
and  ballroom ;  but  instead  a  wide  arch  hung  with  curtains 
of  green  and  silver,  and  under  their  friendly  shade  the  two 
newcomers  could  sit  unobserved,  and  look  on  the  scene 
before  them  to  their  heart's  content. 

The  great  ballroom  was  filled,  but  not  to  repletion.  Lady 
Agnes  had  too  much  taste  and  sense  to  suffocate  her  guests ; 
and  every  moment  the  distinguished  names  of  fresh  arrivals 
came  from  the  lips  of  the  tall  gentleman  in  liveiy  at  the  door. 
The  musicians,  sitting  perched  in  a  gilded  gallery,  were 
blowing  away  on  their  brass  instruments,  and  filling  the  air 
with  German  dance-music  ;  two  or  three  sets  of  quadrilles 
were  in  full  swing  at  the  upper  end  of  the  room,  while  the 
wallflowers  and  the  elderlys,  who  did  not  fancy  cards,  were 
enjoying  themselves  after  their  own  fashion  at  the  lower  end. 
The  glare  of  the  myriad  cluster  of  gas-jets  fell  on  the  splen- 
did throng,  where  satins  and  velvets  rustled,  and  point  lace 
— the  twenty  years'  labor  of  some  Brussels  lace-maker — 
draped  snowy  elbows  and  arms,  where  jewels  flashed  their 
rainbow  fires,  where  fans  waved  and  plumes  fluttered,  and 
perfumes  scented  the  air ;  where .  each  pretty  and  high-titled 
lady  seemed  to  vie  and  eclipse  the  other  in  splendor.  And 
near  the  center  of  the  room,  superb  in  family  diamonds  and 
black  velvet,  stood  Lady  Agnes  by  the  side  of  a  starred  and 
ribboned  foreigner,  receiving  her  guests  like  a  queen.  Lady 
Agnes  always  wore  black — the  malicious  ones  said,  because 
it  suited  her  style,  and  made  her  look  youthful ;  but  whether 
from  that  cause  or  not,  she  certainly  did  look  youthful,  and 
handsome,  too,  albeit  her  marriageable  granddaughter  was 
the  belle  of  the  ball.-  Pale  and  proud,  she  stood  toying  with 
her  fan,  her  rich  black  dress  sweeping  the  chalked  floor,  her 
diamonds  blazing,  and  her  haughty  head  erect,  while  the  dis- 
tinguished foreigner  bent  over  her,  listening  with  profoundest 
respect  to  her  lightest  word.  Tom  touched  Leicester  on  the 
shoulder,  and  nodded  toward  her. 

"  That's  my  lady,  standing  there  with  the  air  of  a  dowager- 
duchess,  and  talking  to  the  Due  de as  if  she    thought 

him  honored  by  the  condescension." 


c 


THE  ROSE  OF  SUSSEX. 


149 


M 


"  Lady  Agnes  is  handsome,"  said  Leicester,  glancing  to- 
ward her,  "  and  looks  as  if  the  pride  of  all  the  Cliffes  were 
concentrated  in  herself.  I  remember  her  perfectly,  though  I 
have  not  seen'  her  since  I  was  a  boy  ;  but  where  is  your  Rose 
of  Sussex  ? " 

"  Behold  her !  "  said  Tom,  tragically.  •*  There  she  comes, 
on  the  arm  of  Lord  Henry  Lisle.     Look  !  " 

Leicester  looked.  Moving  slowly  down  the  room,  at  the 
head  of  the  dancers,  came  one  whom  he  could  almost  have 
known,  without  being  told,  to  be  the  Rose  of  Sussex.  A 
youthful  angel,  girlish  and  slender,  stately,  but  not  tall,  with 
a  profusion  of  golden  curls  falling  over  the  shoulders  to  the 
taper  waist,  beautiful  eyes  of  bright,  violet  blue,  and  a  bright, 
radiant  look  within  them  like  that  of  a  happy  child.  Her 
dress  was  of  pale  blue  glac^  silk,  under  flounces  of  Honiton 
lace,  looped  up  with  bouquets  of  rosebuds  and  jasmine,  a 
large  cluster  of  the  same  flowers  clasping  the  perfect  cor- 
sage, and  pale  pearls  on  the  exquisite  neck  and  arms.  Her 
dress  was  simple,  one  of  the  simplest,  perhaps,  in  the  who'e 
room ;  but  as  the  artist  looked  at  her,  he  thought  of  the 
young  May  moon  in  its  silver  sheen,  of  a  clear,  white  star  in  the 
blue  summer  sky,  of  a  spotless  Jily,  lifting  its  lovely  head  in 
a  silent  mountain-tarn.  It  was  hardly  a  beautiful  face — there 
were  a  score  handsomer  in  the  room,  but  there  certainly  was 
not  another  half  so  lovely.  A  vision  rose  before  him  as  he 
looked,  of  the  smiling  faces  of  Madonnas  and  angels  as  he 
had  seen  them  pictured  in  grand  old  cathedrals ;  and  before 
the  sinless  soul  looking  out  of  those  clear  eyes,  he  quailed 
inwardly,  feeling  as  though  he  were  unworthy  to  touch  the 
hem  of  her  robe. 

"  Well,"  said  Tom,  looking  at  him  curiously,  "  there  is 
the  Rose  of  Sussex,  and  what  do  you  think  of  her  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  sylph ;  it  is  a  snow-spirit ;  it  is  a  fairy  by 
moonlight !  That  is  the  ideal  face  I've  been  trying  all  my 
life  to  paint,  and  failed,  because  I  never  could  find  a 
model ! " 

"  Bah  1  I  would  rather  have  one  woman  of  flesh  and 
blood  than  a  thousand  on  canvas  I  Come,  we  have  stood 
here  long  enough,  and  it  is  time  we  were  paying  our  respects 
to  Lady  Agnes."  ;    " 

"  With  all  my  heart  I  "  said   Leicester,  and  making  their 


1^ 


I50       THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CI.IFFE. 

way  through  the  throng,  both  stood  the  next  moment  be- 
fore the  stately  lady  of  the  mansion. 

"  Aunt,"  said  Tom,  describing  a  graceful  circle  with  his 
hand,  as  he  bowed  before  that  lady,  "  I  come  late,  but  I 
bring  my  apology.  Allow  me  to  present  your  nephew,  Mr. 
Leicester  Shirley  Cliffe  1 " 

Lady  Agnes  turned  with  a  bright,  sudden  smile,  and  held 
out  her  jeweled  hand. 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  My  dear  Leicester.  I  am  enchanted  to 
see  you.  How  well  you  are  looking  1  and  how  tall  you  have 
grown  I  Can  this  really  be  the  little  boy,  with  the  long 
curls,  who  used  to  run  wild,  long  ago,  at  Castle  Clifte  ? " 

Leicester  laughed. 

"  The  same,  madam,  though  the  long  curls  are  gone,  and 
the  little  boy  stands  before  you  six  feet  high." 

"  I  had  quite  despaired  of  your  coming.  And  you  have 
actually  been  in  England  a  fortnight,  and  never  came  to  see 
us !  I  am,  positively,  ashamed  of  you.  Have  you  seen  the 
colonel  ? " 

"No;  we  have  just  arrived."  -^       ^ 

"  How  was  it  you  were  not  announced  ? " 

'<  Oh,  I  brought  him  round  by  a  side-door ;  we  were  late, 
and  our  modesty  would  not  permit  us  to  become  the  cynosure 
of  all  eyes.     There  comes  the  colonel  and  Vic,  now." 

Colonel  Shirley,  looking  quite  as  young  and  handsome  as 
on  the  day  of  the  Cliftonlea  races,  six  years  before,  was  ad- 
vancing with  the  belle  of  the  room,  and  my  lady  tapped  him 
lightly  with  her  fan  on  the  arm. 

"  Cliffe  I     Do  you  know  who  this  is  ?  "  J 

"  Leicester  Cliffe,  by  Jove  I  "  cried  the  colonel,  in  de- 
lighted recognition.  "  My  dear  boy,  is  it  possible  I  see  you 
again  after  all  those  years,  and  grown  out  of  all  knowledge  ? 
Where  in  the  world  have  you  dropped  from  ?  " 

"From  Cliftonlea,  the  last  place.  I  have  found  out,  after 
all  my  wandering,  that  there  is  no  place  like  home." 

"  Right,  my  boy,  Vic,  this  is  your  cousin,  Leicester 
Cliffe." 

The  long  lashes  drooped,  and  the  young  lady  courtesied 
profoundly. 

"  You  remember  him,  Vic,  don't  you  ?  "  said  Tom  ;  "  or 
at  least  you  remember  the  picture  in   Cliffewood  you  used 


THE  ROSE  OF  SUSSEX. 


151 


to  go  into  such  raptures  about  long  ago.  Did  you  think  I 
was  not  coming  to-night,  Vic  ?  " 

"  I  never  thought  of  you  at  all  I  "  said  the  young  lady, 
with  the  prettiest  flush  and  pout  imaginable. 

"  I  know  better  than  that.  There  goes  the  next  quad- 
rille.    May  I  have  the  honor,  Vic  ? " 

"  No.     I  am  engaged."  "-■ 

"The  next,  then?"  .-^  - 

"Engaged!  "  '  ^  - 

"And  the  next?"  - 

Miss  Vic  laughed,  and  consulted  her  tablets. 

"  Very  well,  sir,  that  is  the  last  before  supper,  and  per- 
haps you  may  have  the  honor  also  of  taking  me  down." 

"  And  after  supper,  cousin  mine  !  "  said  Leicester,  as  her 
partner  for  the  set  then  forming  came  to  lead  her  away. 
"  May  I  not  hope  to  be  equally  honored  ? " 

"  Oh,  the  first  after  supper,"  with  another  slight  laugh 
and  blush,  "  is  a  waltz,  monsieur,  and  I  never  waltz." 

"  For  the  first  quadrille,  then  ?  " 

The  young  lady  bowed  assent  and  walked  away,  just  as 
the  colonel,  who  had  been  absent  for  a  moment,  came  up 
with  another  lady  on  his  arm — a  plain,  dark  girl,  not  at  all 
pretty,  very  quietly  dressed,  and  without  jewels. 

"  You  haven't  forgotten  this  young  lady,  I  hope,  Leices- 
ter. Don't  you  remember  your  former  playmate,  little 
Maggie  Shirley  ? " 

"  Certainly.  Why,  Maggie  !  "  he  cried,  his  eyes  lighting 
up  with  real  pleasure,  and  catching  the  hand  she  held  out 
in  both  his. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  again,  Leicester,"  said  Maggie,  a 
faint  color  coming  for  a  moinent  into  her  dark  cheek,  and 
then  fading  away.  "  I  thought  you  were  never  going  to 
come  back  to  old  England  again." 

"  Ah  1  I  was  not  quite  so  far  gone  as  tliat.  Are  you  en- 
gaged ? " 

"No."         ■  ■■'  ■ 

"  Come,  then.  I  have  a  thousand  things  to  say  to  you, 
and  we  can  talk  and  dance  together." 

They  took  their  places  in  one  of  the  quadrilles,  Leicester 
talking  all  the  time. 

Margaret  Shirley  had  been  his  playmate  in  childhood,  his 


I 


'i 


152        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTILE  CIvlFFE. 


friend  and  favorite  always,  and  they  had  corresponded  in 
all  his  wanderings  over  the  world  ;  but  somehow  in  this, 
their  first  meeting,  they  did  not  get  on  so  very  well  after  all. 
Margaret  was  naturally  taciturn  as  an  Indian,  and  the  habit 
seemed  to  have  grown  with  her  growth,  and  to  all  his  ques- 
tions she  would  return  none  but  the  briefest  and  quietest 
answers. 

"  Oh,  confound  your  monosyllables  1  "  muttered  Leisces- 
ter,  as  he  led  her  down  to  supper,  and  watched  Tom  and 
Vic  chatting  and  laughing  away  opposite  as  if  there  were 
nobody  in  the  world  but  themselves.  What  a  lovely  face 
she  had  1  and  how  all  the  gentlemen  in  the  room  seemed  to 
flock  round  her  like  flies  round  a  drop  of  honey !  Leicester 
was  too  much  of  an  artist  not  to  have  a  perfect  passion  for 
beauty  in  whatever  shape  it  came  ;  and  though  he  could  ad- 
mire a  diamond  in  the  rough,  he  certainly  would  have  ad- 
mired the  same  diamond  far  more  in  splendid  setting.  He 
might  love  Barbara  with  his  heart ;  but  he  loved  Vic  already 
with  his  eyes.  Barbara  was  the  dark  daughter  of  the 
earth  :  this  fairy  sprite  seemed  a  vision  from  a  better  land. 
He  was  not  worthy  of  her,  he  felt  that  ;  but  yet  what  an 
Sc/at  there  would  be  in  his  carrying  off  this  reigning  belle  ; 
and  with  the  wily  tempter  whispering  a  thousand  such 
thoughts  in  his  ear,  he  went  back  to  the  ballroom,  and 
claiming  her  promise,  led  her  away  from  Tom,  to  improve 
her  acquaintance  before  the  quadrille  commenced.  The 
ballroom  was  by  this  time  oppressively  hot,  so  they  strayed 
into  the  music-room  ;  there  a  lady  sat  singing  with  a  group 
around  her,  and  from  thence  on  to  the  cool  conservatory, 
where  the  moonlight  shone  in  through  the  arched  windows  ; 
the  words  of  the  song — Tennyson's  "  Maude  " — came  float- 
ing on  the  perfume  of  the  flowers. 

"Come  into  the  garden,  Maude,  ' 

For  the  black -bat  night  has  flown, 
*  Come  into  the  garden,  Maude, 

I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone  ; 
And  the  woodbine  spices  are  wafted  abroad, 
And  the  musk  of  the  roses  blown.  ;-..'■ 

**  For  a  breeze  of  morning  moves,  •    '  . 

And  the  planet  of  Love  is  on  high,  '!^- *      • 

Beginning  to  faint  in  the  light  that  she  lovea^^ ., 

.    i    "^  On  a  bed  of  dafiodil  sky ;  .  ".,/    .> 


THE  BOSK  OF  SUSSEX. 

To  faint  in  the  light  of  the  sun  that  she  lov3S» 
To  faint  in  his  light  and  die. 

• 

"  All  night  have  the  roses  heard 

The  flute,  violin,  bassoon  ; 
Aii  night  has  the  casement  jessamine  stirred, 

To  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune  ; 
Till  a  silence  fell  with  the  waking  bird, 

And  a  hush  with  the  setting  moon. 

**  The  slender  acacia  would  not  s'.iake 

One  long  milk-bloom  on  the  tree  : 
The  white-lake  blossom  fell  into  the  lake, 

As  the  pimpernel  dozed  on  the  lea  ; 
But  the  rose  was  awake  all  night  for  your  sake, 

Knowing  your  promise  to  me  ; 
The  lilies  and  roses  were  all  awake, 

They  sighed  for  the  dawn  and  thee. 

"  Queen-rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of  girls, 
Come  hither,  the  dancers  are  gone. 

In  gloss  of  satin  and  glimmer  of  pearls, 
Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one  ; 

Shine  out,  little  head  running  over  with  curls. 
To  the  flowers  and  be  their  sun." 


153 


Side  by  side  they  stood  together  in  the  moonlight,  she  in 
a  cloud  of  white  lace  and  lustrous  pearls,  the  little  head 
"  running  over  with  curls,"  and  the  fair  face  looking  dreamy 
and  sad  as  she  listened — he  leaning  against  the  window, 
and  watching  her  with  his  heart  in  his  eyes.  They  had 
been  talking  at  first  of  the  ball,  of  Castle  Cliff e,  of  his 
wanderings  ;  but  they  had  fallen  into  silence  to  listen  to 
the  song. 

"  Lovely  thing,  is  it  not  ?  "  she  asked,  looking  up  at  last. 

"  Yes,"  said  Leicester,  thinking  of  herself,  and  feeling  at 
that  moment  there  was  no  other  "Maude  "for  him  in  the 
world  but  her. 

"  We  had  better  go  back  to  the  ballroom,  I  think,  Mr. 
Cliffe.  If  I  am  not  greatly  mistaken  our  quadrille  is  com- 
mencing." 

"  How  formally  you  call  me  Mr.  Cliffe  ;  and  yet  we  are 
cousins." 

"  Oh,  that  is  only  a'  polite  fiction  !  You  are  no  more  my 
cousin  than  you  are  my  brother." 


154       ^HK  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  GI.IFFE. 

"  Yet,  I  think,  you  might  drop  the  Mister.  Leicester  is 
an  easy  name  to  say."  - 

"Is  it?" 

"  Try  it,  and  see." 

"  If  it  ever  comes  natural,  perhaps  I  may,"  said  the  young 
lady,  with  composure  ;  "  but  certainly  not  now.  There,  it 
is  the  quadrille,  and  I  know  we  will  be  late." 

But  they  vere  not  late,  and  came  in  time  to  lead  off  the 
set  v.ith  spirit.  Somewhere,  ugly  old  Time  was  mowing 
down  his  tens  of  thousands,  but  it  certainly  was  not  in  Shir- 
ley House,  where  the  gas-lit  moments  flew  by  all  too  quickly, 
tinged  with  couleur  de  rose,  until  the  di.n  dawn  began  to  steal 
in,  and  carriages  were  called  for,  and  the  most  successful 
ball  of  the  season  came  to  an  end.  "  • 

Back  in  his  own  room,  Leicester  Cliffe  was  feverishly  pac- 
ing up  and  down,  with  a  v/ar  going  on  in  his  own  heart.  A 
vision  rose  before  him  of  pearls  and  floating  lace,  golden  curls, 
blue  eyes,  and  the  face  of  a  smiling  angel — a  reigning  belle, 
and  one  of  the  richest  heiresses  in  England — all  to  be  his 
for  the  asking ;  but  with  it  there  came  another  vision — the 
Nun's  Grave  under  the  gloomy  yews  ;  the  dark,  wiM  gipsy 
standing  beside  him,  while  he  carved  her  name  and  his  to- 
gether on  the  old  tree  ;  his  own  words,  "  When  I  prove  false 
to  you,  1  pray  God  that  I  may  die  ;  "  and  the  dreadful  fire 
that  had  filled  her  eyes ;  and  the  dreadful  "  Alien  "  she  had 
hissed  through  her  closed  teelh.  The  skein  had  run  fair 
hitherto,  but  the  tangle  was  coming  now ;  and,  quite  unable 
to  see  how  he  was  to  unwind  it,  he  lay  down  on  his  bed  at 
last.     But  Leicester  Cliffe  did  not  sleep  much  that  night. 


■W'^ 


OFF  WITH  THE  OI.D  I.OVE. 


155 


CHAPTER  XVn. 


OFF    WITH    THE   OLD    LOVE. 

The  daintiest  of  little  Swiss  clocks  on  a  gilded  mantelpiece 
was  beginning  to  play  the  "  Sophia  Waltz  "  preparatory  to 
striking  eleven,  and  Lady  Agnes  Shirley  looked  up  at  it  with 
a  little  impatient  frown.  The  Swiss  clock  and  the  gilded 
mantelpiece  were  in  the  breakfast-parlor  of  Shirley  House ; 
and  in  a  great  carved  armchair,  cushioned  in  violet  velvet, 
before  a  sparkling  coal  fire,  sat  Lady  Agnes.  She  had  just 
arisen ;  and  in  her  pretty  morning-dress  of  a  warm  rose-tint, 
lined  and  edged  with  snow-white  fur ;  the  blonde  hair,  which 
Time  was  too  gallant  to  touch  with  silver,  and  only  ventured 
to  thin  out  a  little  at  the  pa  "ting,  brushed  in  the  old  fashion 
off  the  smooth,  low  forehead,  and  hidden  under  a  gauzy  af- 
fair of  black  lace  and  ribbons,  which  she  was  pleased  to  call 
a  morning-cap ;  a  brooch  of  cluster  diamonds  sparkling  on 
her  neck,  and  her  daintily-slippered  feet  resting  on  a  violet 
velvet  ottoman,  she  looked  like  an  exquisite  picture  in  a  carved 
oak  frame.  At  her  elbow  was  a  little  round  stand,  covered 
with  the  whitest  of  damask,  whereon  stood  a  porcelaine  cup 
half-filled  with  chocolate ;  a  tiny  glass,  not  much  larger  than 
a  thimble,  filled  with  Cognac ;  a  little  bird  swimming  in  rich 
sauce,  and  a  plate  of  oyster-pitd  But  the  lady  did  not  eat, 
she  only  stirred  the  cold  chocolate  with  the  golden  spoon, 
looked  dreamily  into  the  fire,  and  waited.  Last  night,  before 
the  ball  broke  up,  she  had  directed  a  certain  gentleman  to 
call  next  morning  and  discuss  with  her  a  certain  important 
matter ;  but  it  was  eleven,  and  he  had  not  called  yet ;  and  so 
she  sat  with  her  untasted  breakfast  before  her,  and  waited 
and  thought.  She  thought  of  another  morning,  more  than 
eighteen  years  ago,  when  she  had  sat  and  waited  for  another 
young  gentleman,  to  talk  to  him  on  the  very  same  subject — 
matrimony.     Eighteen  years  ago  she  had  found  the  young 


1I 


156        THK  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  GUFFK. 


gentleman  obstinate  and  refractory,  and  herself  outwitted  ; 
but  then  all  young  gentlemen  were  not  as  self-willed  as  he, 
and  she  had  great  hopes  of  the  particular  one  waited  for  this 
morning.  So,  tapping  her  slippered  foot  on  the  ottoman, 
and  beating  the  devil's  tattoo  with  her  spoon,  she  alternately 
watched  the  Swiss  clock  and  the  red  cinders  falling  from  the 
grate,  until  the  door  was  flung  open  by  a  footman,  and  Mr. 
Cliffe  announced  in  a  stentorian  voice.  And  hat  in  hand, 
Leicester  Cliffe  stood  before  her  the  next  moment. 

"  Punctual  I  "  said  Lady  Agnes,  glancing  at  the  timepiece, 
and  languidly  holding  out  her  hand.  '*  I  told  you  to  come 
early,  and  it  is  half-past  eleven  o'clock!" 

"  Ten  thousand  pardons ;  but  it  is  all  the  ,fault  of  the  people 
of  the  hotel,  I  assure  you ;  I  gave  orders  to  be  called  at  ten 
precisely ;  but  it  was  nearer  eleven  when  the  waiter  came. 
Am  I  forgiven  ?  " 

"  You've  kept  me  waiting  half  an  hour ;  and  I  detest  people 
who  make  me  wait ;  but  I  think  I  can  forgive  you.  Take  a 
seat  near  the  fire — the  morning  is  chilly." 

"  And  how  are  the  young  ladies  ? "  inquired  Leicester,  as 
he  obeyed ;  "  not  over-fatigued,  I  trust,  after  the  ball." 

"  I  cannot  answer  for  Margaret,  who  is  probably  asleep 
yet;  but  Victoria  came  to  my  room  fully  two  hours  ago, 
dressed  for  a  canter  in  the  park.  Quite  true,  I  assure  you, 
my  dear  Leicester — it  is  the  most  energetic  child  in  the  world  I 
Will  you  have  a  cup  of  coffee  ? " 

"  Not  any,  thank  you.  I  have  breakfasted.  Miss  Shirley 
is  certainly  a  modern  miracle  to  get  up  so  early ;  but,  perhaps, 
to-day  is  an  exception." 

"  Not  at  all !  Victoria  is  an  early  bird,  and  constantly 
rises  at  some  dismal  hour  in  the  early  morning,  and  attends 
church — convent  habits,  and  so  on  I "  said  Lady  Agnes,  with 
a  shrug  and  a  short  laugh.  "  Shall  I  ever  forget  the  first 
morning  after  her  arrival  at  Castle  Cliflfe,  when,  on  going  to 
her  room  at  sunrise,  I  found  her  making  her  bed,  like  any 
chambermaid!  I  believe  you  never  saw  her  before  last 
night." 

"  I  never  had  that  pleasure ;  but  I  knew  her  immediately. 
There  is  a  picture  at  the  castle  of  a  small  child  with  blue 
eyes  and  long  curls,  and  it  is  like  her,  only  Miss  Shirley  is 
far  lovelier."  .       .     .«.        . 


_^l 


W 


OFF  WITH  THE  OhD  LOVE. 


>57 


Lr. 

jce, 
Ime 


.•,;^ 


Lady  Agnes  lifted  her  keen  eyes  from  the  fire  with  a  quick» 
eager  sparkle. 

"  Ah,  you  think  her  lovely,  then  ?  " 

'*  Lady  Agnes,  who  could  look  at  her,  and  think  other- 
wise ? " 

"  You  are  right  I  Victoria  is  beautiful,  as  half  the  young 
men  in  our  set  know  to  their  cost.  Ah,  she  is  a  finished  co- 
quette, is  my  handsome  granddaughter  l  Who  do  you  think 
proposed  for  her  last  night  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  imagine." 

"  The  young  Marquis  de  St.  Hilary,  whom  she  knew  long 
ago  in  France.  He  spoke  to  me  in  the  handsomest  manner 
first,  and  having  obtained  my  consent — for  I  knew  perfectly 
well  what  the  answer  would  be — proposed." 

"  And  the  answer  was-  -? "  said  Leicester,  with  a  slight 
and  conscious  smile. 

"  No,  of  course  !  Had  I  dreamed  for  a  moment  it  could 
have  been  anything  else,  rest  assured  the  Marquis  de  St. 
Hilary  would  never  have  offered  his  hand  and  name  to  my 
granddaughter.  There  is  but  one  name  I  shall  ever  be  glad 
to  see  Victoria  Shirley  bear,  and  that  is — Cliffe !  " 

"  Now  it  is  coming !  "  thought  Leicester,  suppressing 
a  smile  with  an  effort,  and  looking  with  gravity  at  the 
fire. 

Lady  Agnes,  leaning  back  in  the  violet  velvet  arm-chair, 
eyed  her  young  kinsman  askance.  Hers  was  really  an  eagle 
glance — sharp,  sidelong,  piercing ;  and  now  she  was  recon- 
noitering  the  enemy  like  a  skilful  general,  before  beginning 
the  attack.  But  the  handsome  face  baffled  her.  It  was  as 
emotionless  as  a  waxed  mask,  and  she  bent  over  and  laid 
her  hand  on  his  with  a  slight  laugh. 

"  What  a  boy  it  is !  sitting  there  as  unreadable  a*  an  oracle, 
without  a  sign  ;  and  yet  he  knows  all !  " 

"  All  what.  Lady  Agnes  ?  " 

"  Nonsense  I  I  am  not  going  to  have  any  fencing  here ; 
so  sheathe  your  sword,  and  let  us  have  the  whole  thing,  and 
in  plain  English.  Of  course.  Sir  Rolond  has  told  you  all 
about  it." 

"  Madam,"  stammered  Leicester,  really  at  a  loss. 

"  There,  don't  blush  I  Victoria  herself  cou)d  not  have 
done  it  more   palpably.     Of  course,  I  say  Sir  Roland  has 


i^ 


'^^ 


158        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CUFFE. 


told  you  the  whole  matter  ;  the  object  of  my  invitation,  in 
short.     Yes,  your  face  tells  it ;  I  see  he  has  1  " 

"  Lady  Agnes,  I  have  read  your  letter." 

"  So  much  the  better  I  I  need  not  waste  time  making  a 
revelation  ;  and  now,  what  do  you  think  of  it  ? " 

"  Your  ladyship,  I  have  not  had  time  to  think  of  it  at 
all.  Consider,  I  have  seen  Miss  Shirley  last  night  for  the 
first  time  I  " 

"  What  of  it  ?  On  the  continent,  the  bridegroom  only 
sees  his  bride  when  they  stand  before  the  altar." 

"  But  this  is  England,  Lady  Agnes,  where  we  have  quite 
another  way  of  doing  those  things  1  I  am  a  true-born 
Briton,  and  Miss  Shirley  is — " 

"  French  to  the  core  of  her  heart,  and  with  an  implicit 
faith  in  the  tontinental  way  of  doing  those  things,  as  you 
call  it.  You  saw  her  last  night  for  the  first  time.  True. 
But  the  sight  was  satisfactory,  I  trust."  ,       . 

'*  Eminently  so,  yet " 

"  Yet  what  ? " 

"  Lady  Agnes,"  said  Leicester,  laughing,  yet  coloring  a 
little  under  the  cold,  keen  gaze  of  the  woman  of  the  world, 
"  there  is  an  old-fashioned  prejudice  in  favor  of  love  before 
marriage,  and  you  will  allow  we  have  not  had  much  time  to 
fall  in  love  with  each  other." 

"  Bah !  "  said  Lady  Agnes,  with  supreme  scorn.  "  Is 
that  all  ?  How  many  times  in  your  life,  my  dear  Leicester, 
have  you  been  in  love  before  this  ?  " 

Leicester  laughed,  and  shook  back  his  fair,  clustering 
hair.  \^ 

"  It  is  past  counting,  your  ladyship  1 " 

"  And  how  many  of  those  ladyloves  have  you  married  ?  " 

"  Rather  a  superfluous  question,  I  should  think,  Lady 
Agnes." 

"Answer  it  1  "  '  \  -    ^^^^  v ;; 

"  Not  one,  of  course  I  "  ~  '  '  \* 

Again  Lady  Agnes  shrugged  her  shoulders,  with  her 
peculiar  scornful  laugh. 

"  We  have  met,  we  have  loved,  and  we  have  parted  1 " 
That  is  the  burden  of  c.ie  of  Victoria's  songs  ;  and,  of 
course,  your  heart  was  broken  long  ago,  after  all  those  sharp 
blows  upon  it !  " 


\ 

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11 

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1:4  • 

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iHit' 

OFF  WITH  THE  OLD  LOVE. 


159 


ni 


at 

'» 

he 

.      .■! 

ly 

te 

';  > 

"  I  am  not  aware  that  it  is  1  It  feels  all  right — beats 
much  the  same  as  usual  1  I  never  heard  of  a  man  with  a 
broken  heart  in  all  my  life  I '' 

"  Neither  have  I  ;  and  so,  Mr.  Cliffe,  as  you've  had  love 
enough  without  marriage,  suppose  you  try  marriage  without 
love  ;  that  sentiment  will  come  afterward,  believe  me  I  " 

"  You  know  best,  of  course  1  I  bow  to  your  superior 
judgment,  Lady  Agnes  1  "  said  Leicester,  bending  to  hide  an 
irrepressible  smile. 

"  Love  is  all  very  fine,  and  excessively  useful  in  its  place," 
said  Lady  Agnes,  leaning  back  with  the  air  of  one  entering 
upon  an  abstruse  subject  ;  "  the  stock  and  trade  with  which 
poets  and  authors  set  up  business,  and  without  which  I 
don't  know  how  the  poor  wretches  would  ever  get  along. 
It  is  also  well  enough  in  real  life  ;  for  you  must  know 
I  believe  in  the  existence  of  such  a  feeling  when  in 
Its  proper  place,  and  kept  in  due  bonds,  but,  not  at  all 
indispensable  to  the  happiness  of  married  life.  For  in- 
stance, I  made  a  mariage  de  convenance  ;  Dr.  Shirley  was 
twenty  years  my  senior,  and  I  had  not  seen  him  half  a 
dozen  times  when  I  accepted  him,  and,  of  course,  did  not 
care  a  straw  for  him  in  that  way,  yet  I  am  sure  we  got  along 
extremely  well  together,  and  never  had  a  quarrel  in  our 
lives.  Then  there  was  Sir  Roland  and  your  mother.  You 
know  very  well  they  married,  not  tor  love,  but  because  it 
was  an  eminently  proper  match,  and  she  wanted  a  guardian 
for  her  son — yourself  ;  yet  how  contentedly  they  lived  to- 
gether always.  Oh,  my  dear  Leicester,  if  that  is  all  your 
objection,  pray  don't  mention  it  again,  for  it  is  utterly  ab- 
surd !  " 

'  So  I  perceive,"  said  Leicester,  dryly.  "  But  is  your 
ladyship  quite  certain  Miss  Shirley  will  agree  with  you  in 
all  these  views?  Suppose  she  has  what  is  called  a  prior  en- 
gagement ?  " 

Lady  Agnes  drew  herself  up,  and  fixed  her  cold  blue  eyes 
proudly  on  his  face.  .v  -■ 

"  The  idea  is  simply  absurd  !  Miss  Shirley  nas  nothing 
of  the  sort  1  My  granddaughter,  my  proud,  pure-minded 
Victoria,  stoop  to  such  a  thing  as  a  clandestine  attachment 
for  any  man  I  Sir,  if  any  one  else  had  uttered  such  an  idea, 
I  should  have  considered  it  an  insult  1 " 


ii 


i6o        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CLIFFE. 


^1  i 


"  Pardon  1     I  had  no  intention  to  offend." 

"  Perhaps  " — still  with  hauteur — "  perhaps  you  judge  her 
by  yourself  ;  perhaps  you  have  some  prior  attachment  which 
causes  all  those  scruples.  If  so,  speak  the  word,  and  you 
have  heard  the  last  you  will  ever  hear  from  me  or  any  one 
else  on  this  subject  I  The  heiress  of  Castle  Cliffe,"  said 
Lady  Agnes,  a  flush  crimsoning  her  delicate  face,  "  is  not 
to  be  forced  on  any  man  !  " 

Oh,  Barbara !  his  heart  went  back  with  a  bound  to  the 
cottage  by  the  sea,  but  never  before  had  your  power  over 
him  been  so  feeble.  What  would  this  satirjcal  kinswoman 
— this  grand  and  scornful  lady — ay,  if  he  stood  before  her 
like  a  great  schoolboy,  and  blushingly  blurted  out  his  grand 
passion  for  the  fisherman's  daughter.  His  cheek  reddened 
at  the  very  thought  ;  and  feeling  that  the  eagle  eyes  were 
piercing  him  like  needles,  he  looked  up  and  confronted 
them  with  a  gaze  quite  as  unflinching  md  almost  as  haughty. 

"  You  are  somewhat  inconsistent,  I^ady  Agnes.  You 
gave  me  carte  blanche  a  moment  ago  to  love  as  many  as  I 
pleased  I  " 

"  I  gave  you  absolution  for  the  past,  not  indulgence  for 
the  future  1  With  Leicester  Cliffe  and  his  amours  I  have 
nothing  to  do,  but  the  husband  cf  my  granddaughter  must 
be  true  to  her  as  the  needle  to  the  North  Star !  " 

He  bowed  in  haught}'  silence.  Lady  Agnes  looked  at 
him  searchingly,  and  calmed  down. 

"  If  we  commence  at  daggers  drawn,"  she  said,  still 
laughing  her  satirical  laugh,  "  we  will  certainly  end  in  war 
to  the  knife  1  Listen  to  me,  Leiscester,  my  nephew,  the 
last  of  the  Cliffes,  and  learn  why  it  is  that  this  marriage  is  so 
dear  to  my  heart — why  it  has  been  my  dream  by  day  and 
by  night  since  I  first  saw  Victoria.  Some  of  the  noblest 
names  in  the  peerage  have  been  laid  this  winter  at  my 
granddaughter's  feet,  and  by  me  rejected — she  the  most 
dutiful  child  in  the  world,  never  objecting.  You  know 
what  an  heiress  she  is — worth  at  least  twenty  thousand  a 
year  ;  and  do  ycu  think  I  would  willingly  let  the  millions 
of  our  family  go  to  swell  the  rent-roll  of  some  impoverished 
foreign  duke,  or  spendthrift  English  earl?  You  are  the 
last,  excent  my  son  and  Sir  Roland,  bearing  the  name  of 
Cliffe  ;  they  will  never  marry,  aad  I  don't  want  a  name  that 


'     w^ 


OFF  WITH  THE  OI<D  LOVE. 


i6r 


existed  before  the  Conqueror  to  pass  from  our  branch  of 
the  family.  By  your  marriage  with  my  granddaughter,  the 
united  fortunes  of  the  Ciiffes  and  Shirleys  v.'ill  mingle,  and 
the  name  will  descend,  noble  and  honored,  to  posterity,  as 
it  has  been  honored  in  the  past.  It  is  for  you  to  decide 
whether  these  hopes  are  to  be  realized  or  disappointed. 
Victoria  has  no  will  but  that  of  her  natural  guardians,  and 
your  decision  must  be  quick ;  for  I'm  determined  she  shall 
leave  town  engaged." 

"  You  shall  have  my  answer  to-night !  "  said  Leiscester, 
rising  and  taking  his  hat. 

"  That  is  well !  We  go  to  the  theater  to-night,  and  you 
may  come  to  our  box." 

"  I  shall  not  fail  to  do  so  I  Until  then,  adieu  I  and  au 
revoir  /  " 

Lady  Agnes  held  out  her  hand  with  a  gracious  smile,  but 
he  just  touched  it,  and  ran  down-stairs.  As  he  passed 
through  the  lower  hall,  the  library  door  stood  ajar  ;  he 
caught  sight  of  a  figure  sitting  in  the  recess  of  a  window. 
It  was  Margaret,  holding  a  book  listlessly  in  one  hand, 
while  the  other  supported  her  cheek.  She  was  looking  out 
at  the  square,  where  a  German  band  was  playing  "  Love 
Not,"  and  her  face  wore  a  look  so  lonely  and  so  sad  that  it 
touched  him  to  the  heart.  If  Leicester  Cliffe  had  one  really 
pure  feeling  for  any  human  being  it  was — strangely  enough 
— for  this  plain,  silent  cousin  of  his,  whom  nobody  ever 
iK)ticed.  He  went  in,  and  was  bending  over  her,  with  his 
fair  hair  touching  her  cheek,  before  she  heard  him. 

"  Maggie — little  cousin — what  is  the  matter  ? " 

She  started  up  with  a  suppressed  cry,  her  dark  face  turn- 
ing, for  a  moment,  brightest  crimson,  and  then  white,  even 
to  the  lips. 

"  Oh,  Leicester !  "  she  cried,  laying  her  hand  on  her  fast- 
throbbing  heart ;  "  how  could  you  startle  me  so  ? " 

"  Did  I  ?  I  am  sorry  1  What  a  nervous  little  puss  it  is  1 
Her  gracious  majesty,  up-staas,  told  me  you  were  asleep." 

"  For  shame,  sir  1     Have  you  been  with  Lady  Agnes  ? " 

"  Oh,  haven't  I  ?  "  said  Leicester,  making  a  slight  grim- 
ace. "  What  are  you  doing  here  alone  ?  Why  are  you  not 
out  riding  with  your  cousin  ? " 

"  I  prefer  being  here.    Won't  you  sit  down  ?  " 


/ 


i-l! 


t  1 


\^ 


i62        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CLIFFE. 


(( 


No  1  What  makes  you  so  pale  ?  I  remember,  long 
ago,  when  we  played  hide-and-seek  together  in  the  old  halls 
of  Castle  Cliffe,  you  had  cheeks  like  rose-berries,  but  they 
are  as  white  as  those  lace  curtains  now. 

•  '  Oh,  rare,  pale  Margaret !  " . 

-^  Oh,  fair,  pale  Margaret !  "  « 

tell  your  old  playfellow  what  it  is  all  about." 

She  glanced  up  for  a  moment  at  the  handsome  face  bend- 
ing over  her,  and  then  stooped  lower  over  her  book,  turn- 
ing almost  paler  than  before, 

"  My  good  little  cousin,  tell  me  what  it  means."  * 

'•  Nothing  1" 

"  I  know  better  I  Young  ladies  don't  go  about  like  white 
shadows,  with  as  much  life  in  them  as  one  of  those  marble 
statues,  for  nothing.     Are  you  ill  ?  " 

"No!"  '^ 

"  Are  you  happy  ?  "  ^  '  v 

''Yes!  " 

"  Is  that  grand  sultana  up-stairs  good  to  you?  "  f*' 

"Very." 

"  And  the  princess  royal — how  does  she  treat  you  ?  " 

"  Cousin  Victoria  is  like  a  sister." 

"  Then  what,  in  Heaven's  name,  has  crushed  all  the  life 
out  of  the  little  Maggie  Shirley  I  romped  with  lang  syne  ? 
Do  you  know  you're  but  the  ghost  of  your  former  self,  Mag- 
gie?" 

She  did  not  speak — she  only  held  the  book  closer  to  her 
face,  and  something  fell  on  it,  an4  wet  it.  There  was  a  tap 
on  the  door,  and  a  servant  entered. 

"  Miss  Margaret,  my  lady  wants  you  to  come  and  read 
to  her." 

"  I  must  go,  Lei9ester.     Good-morning!" 

She  was  gone  in  an  instant,  and  Leicester,  feeling  there 
was  a  screw  loose  somewhere,  and,  like  all  of  his  stupid  sex, 
too  blind  to  guess  within  a  mile  of  the  truth,  went  down  the 
steps,  took  his  horse  from  the  groom  in  waiting,  and  dashed 
off  through  the  Park.  As  he  entered  Rotten  Row,  he  was 
confronted  by  three  equestrians :  Colonel  Shirley,  his 
daughter,  and  Tom.     The  image  of  Victoria  had  been  be* 


OFF  WITH  THE  OI.D  I.OVE. 


163 


fore  him  all  the  way,  Hashing  in  lace  and  jewels  as  he  had 
seen  her  last  night,  but  now  she  dawned  upon  him  in  quite 
another  vision  of  beauty.  From  her  childhood  the  girl  had 
■  taken  to  riding  as  naturally  as  she  had  to  sleeping,  and  she 
sat  her  spirited  Arabian  with  as  easy  a  grace  as  she  would 
have  sat  on  a  sofa.  Nothing  could  have  been  more  be- 
witching than  the  exquisitely-fitting  habit  of  dark-blue  cloth  ; 
the  exuberant  curls  confined  in  a  net,  seeing  that  curls 
under  a  riding-hat  are  an  abomination  ;  her  fair  cheeks 
flushed  with  exercise,  the  violet  eyes  sparkling  and  laugh- 
ing with  the  very  happiness  of  living  on  such  a  day,  and 
the  rosy  lips  all  dimpled  with  glad  smiles.  She  touched  her 
black-plumed  hat  coquettishly,  d  /a  militaire^  with  her  yel- 
low-gauntleted  hand,  as  the  young  gentleman  bowed  before 
her. 

«'Well  met,  Cliffe  1 "  said  the  colonel;  "we  were  just 
'  speaking  of  you.     Come  home  and  dine  with  us." 

"  Thanks.     I  regret  to  say  I  am  already  engaged." 

"  To-morrow,  then  1  Have  you  any  engagement  for  to- 
night?   We  are  for  the  theater." 

"  None ;  and  I  have  promised  her  ladyship  to  drop  into 
her  box.  Miss  Shirley,  I  need  not  ask  if  you  have  recovered 
from  the  fatigue  of  last   night ;  you  are   as   radiant   as   a 


rose 


M 


**  Oh,  I  am  never  fatigued  I  "  said  Miss  Shirley,  with  her 
frank  laugh.  "  Papa,  come ;  Claude  is  impatient.  Au 
revoir^  Mr.  Cliffe." 

She  looked  back  at  him  with  a  saucy  glance,  waving  her 
hand,  and  the  next  moment  was  dashing  away  out  of  sight. 
And  Leicester  Cliffe  went  to  his  hotel  to  dress  for  dinner, 
with  "  a  dancing  shape,  an  image  gay,"  haunting  his  mind's 
eye,  to  the  exclusion  of  everything  else — the  princess  royal 
on  horseback. 

The  dinner-party  at  Lord  Henry  Lisle's  was  a  very  noisy 
and  prolonged  affair  indeed.  Leicester,  thinking  of  the 
theater,  wished  them  all  at  Jericho  a  thousand  times  before 
it  was  over.  The  Rose  of  Sussex  was  toasted  so  often  in 
punch  and  port,  thick  and  sweet,  that  the  whole  party  were 
rather  glorious  when  they  issued  forth — Leicester  excepted. 
Remembering  his  engagement,  he  had  not  imbibed  quite  so 
much  of  the  rosy  as  the  rest,  and  was  all  right  when  he 


^      ) 


1 64        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CIvIFFB. 

presented  himself,  according  to  order,  at  the  stage-box  be- 
longing to  the  Shirleys.  Lady  Agnes  was  there,  as  usual,  in 
a  splendid  toilet ;  beside  her  sat  Vivia,  looking  like  an  angel 
in  moire  antique  and  emeralds,  with  a  magnificent  opera- 
cloak,  half-dropping  off  her  bare  and  beautiful  shoulders. 
Tom  was  leaning  devotedly  over  her  chair,  talking  nonsense 
very  fast,  at  all  of  which  Miss  Shirley  was  good-natured 
enough  to  laugh  ;  and  Margaret,  very  simply  dressed,  accord- 
ing to  custom,  sat  very  still  and  quiet  under  the  shadows 
of  the  curtains.  The  colonel  was  absent  ;  and  Lady  Agnes 
received  him  with  gracious  reproof. 

"  Lazy  boy  i  The  first  act  is  over,  and  you  are  late,  as 
usual !  Such  a  charming  play — '  Undine  1 '  Tom,  hold 
your  tongue,  and  use  your  eyes,  or  else  go  and  talk  to  Mar- 
garet. There  she  sits,  like  little  Jack  Horner,  alone  in 
the  corner,  moping  1  " 

Vivia  turned  her  beautiful  face  anvd  welcomed  him  with 
a  bewildering  smile ;  and  Tom,  deal"  to  his  aunt's  hint, 
merely  moved  aside  a  little ;  while  the  newcomer  bent  over 
her  chair  to  pay  his  respects.  The  wine  he  had  been 
drinking  had  merely  raised  his  spirits  to  an  excellent 
talking-point.  Vivia  was  a  good  talker,  too;  and  in  ten 
minutes    conversation  was  in  full  flow. 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  that  play — *  Undine  '  ?  "  she  was 
asking. 

"  Never." 

"  Ah !  it  is  beautiful  1  I  love  it,  because  I  love  *  Un- 
dine '  herself.  Do  you  know,  monsieur,  I  took  a  fancy  to 
study  German  first  for  the  purpose  of  reading  *  Undine  '  in 
the  original  ?     Look  !  the  curtain  is  rising  now  I  " 

It  went  up  as  she  spoke,  and  showed  the  knight  battling 
with  the  spirits  in  the  enchanted  wood.  Leicester  looked 
at  the  stage  and  smiled. 

"  This  first  visit  to  the  theater  since  my  return  to  Eng- 
land reminds  me  .of  the  first  time  I  ever  visited  a  theater  at 
all." 

"  Do  you  remember  it  ?  It  must  have  been  a  long  time 
ago  ? " 

"  It  is.  It  is  eighteen  years.  I  was  in  a  box  with  Lady 
Agnes  and  my  mother ;  and,  opposite,  sat  Sir  Roland  and 
your  father,  then  Lieutenant   Cliffe,   Lord  Lisle  and   that 


'ml 


OFF  WITH  THE  OLD  I.OVE. 


165 


yellow  lawyer — a  i»ioney-lender  he  was  then — Mr.  Sweet. 
It  made  a  vivid  impression  on  me — the  lights,  the  gay 
dresses  and  the  brilliant  iscenery.  I  forget  what  the  play 
was,  but  I  know  the  house  was  crowded,  because  it  was  the 
last  appearance  of  a  beautiful   actress.     Mademoiselle " 

He  had  been  speaking  with  animation,  but  he  stopped 
suddenly ;  for  the  beautiful  face  was  crimson,  and  there 
was  a  quick  uplifting  of  the  haughty  head,  which  reminded 
him  forcibly  of   Lady  Agnes. 

"  Mademoiselle  Vivia  I  "  she  said,  lifting  her  violet  eyes 
with  a  bright  free  glance  to  his  face.  "  My  mother — my 
beautiful  mother,  whom  I  have  never  seen  !  " 

"  Miss  Shirley,  I  did  not  mean — I  never  thought !  Can 
you  forgive  me  ? "' 

"  Out  of  my  heart,  monsieur.     See,  there  is  '  Undine  !  '  " 

She  leaned  forward.  A  tumult  of  applause  shook  the 
house,  and  he  bent  over  too.  There  was  the  seacoast  and 
the  fisherman's  cottage,  and  there  from  the  sea-foam  rose 
"  Undine,"  robed  in  white,  with  lilies  in  her  hair.  It 
reminded  Tom  Shirley  of  the  "  Infant  Venus  ;  "  it  reminded 
Leicester  Cliffe  of  Barbara — the  same,  though  he  did  not 
know  it.  In  the  dazzle  of  the  music,  and  lights,  and  the  girl 
beside  him,  he  had  not  thought  of  her  before  ;  and  now  her 
memory  came  back  with  a  pang,  half-pleasure,  half-pain. 
Somehow,  Vivia's  thoughts,  by  some  mysterious  rapport^  were 
straying  in  the  same  direction  too. 

"Monsieur  Cliffe,"  she  said,  so  suddenly  lifting  her  violet 
eyes  that  he  was  disconcerted,  "  do  you  know  Barbara  ? " 

The  guilty  blood  flew  to  his  face,  and  he  drew  back  to 
avoid  the  innocent  eyes. 

"I  have  seen  her  I  " 

She  laughed  a  gay  little  mischievous  laugh. 

"  I  know  that !     Tom  told  me  all  about  the  May  Queen, 
and  how  you  were   struck.     I  don't  know  how   it   is,  but 
Undine  '  always  reminds  me  of  Barbara." 

"  Does    she  ?  "  ' 

"  Yes.  Barbara  was  a  little  water-sprite  herself,  you 
now ;  and  I  wonder  she  has  not  melted  away  into  a  minia- 
ture cascade  before  this.  Did  she  ever  tell  you  she  saved  my 
life  ? "  - 

"Nol"^  ■  *•  >        '^     ' 


i66        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CI.IFFE. 

"  Proud  girl  1  Spartan  Barbara  I  Is  she  as  handsome  as 
she  was  long  ago  ?  "  . 

"She  is  very  handsome." 

Mentally  she  rose  before  him  as  he  spoke  in  her  mimic 
chariot,  crowned  and  sceptered,  with  eyes  shining  like  stars, 
and  cheeks  lilce  June  roses;  and  he  drew  still  further  back, 
lest  the  violet  eyes  should  read  his  guilt  in  his  face.  She 
drew  back  a  little  herself,  to  avoid  the  fire  of  lorgnettes  di-  ■ 
rected  at  their  box — some  at  the  great  Sussex  heiress,  others 
to  the  noble  and  lovely  head  alone. 

"  ♦  Undine  '  reminds  me  of  her,"  she  went  on,  "  only  *  Un- 
dine '  died  of  a  broken  heart ;  and  if  Barbara  were  deceived, 
I  think "  .• 

She  stopped  with  a  blush  and  a  laugh. 

"  Go  on,  Miss  Shirley." 

"  I  think — but  I  am  foolish,  perhaps — that  she  would  have 
revenge  ;  that  she  would  have  it  in  her  to  kill  her  betrayer, 
instead  of  melting  away  into  the  sea  of  neglect,  and  being 
heard  of  no  more." 

He  turned  pale  as  he  looked  at  the  stage,  where  stood  the 
false  knight  and  his  high-born  bride,  while  Undine  floated 
away  in  the  moonlight,  singing  her  death-song.  Again  Vivia 
leaned  forward  to  look. 

"  Poor,  forsaken  '  Undine  I '  Ah !  how  I  have  h?lf-cried 
my  eyes  out  over  the  stoiy  1  and  how  I  hate  that  treacher- 
ous Huldebrand  I  I  could — could  almost  kill  him  my- 
self I " 

"  Have  you  no  pity  for  him  ?  "  said  Leicester,  turning  paler, 
as  he  identified  himself  with  the  condemned  knight.  *•  Think 
how  beautiful  Bertralda  is  ;  and  '  Undine  *  was  only  the 
fisherman's  daughter ! " 

"  That  makes  it  all  the  worse  I  Knights  should  have 
nothing  to  do  with  fishermen's  daughters  I  " 

J'  Not  even  if  they  are  beautiful?  " 

"  No;  eagles  don't  mate  with  birds  of  paradise." 

"  How  haughty  you  are  !  " 

**  Not  at  all.  You  know  the  proverb, '  Birds  of  a  feather.' 
Poor  Barbara  !  I  do  pity  her  for  being  poor !  " 

"  Does  wealth  constitute  happiness  ? " 

"  I  don't  know  ;  but  I  do  know  that  poverty  would  con- 
stitute misery  for  me.     I  am  thankful  I  am  Victoria  Shirley, 


OFF  WITH  THE  OLD  LOVE. 


167 


the  heiicss  of  Castle  Cliffe ;  and  I  would  not  be  any  one 
else  for  the  world  1  " 

She  rose,  as  she  spoke,  with  a  light  laugh.  The  curtain 
had  fallen  with  the  last  scene  of  "  Undine,"  and  Lady 
Agnes  was  rising,  too. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  asked  Leicester.  "  Will  you 
not  wait  for  the  afterpiece  ?  " 

"  A  comedy  after  *  Undine  I '  How  can  you  suggest  suth 
a  thing!  Oh,  never  mind  me.  I  will  follow  you  and 
grandmamma." 

So  Leicester  gave  his  arm  to  grandmamma,  and  led  her 
forth,  Vivia  gathering  up  her  flowing  robes  and  following. 
Tom,  who  had  long  ago  retreated,  sulky  and  jealous,  from 
the  field,  came  last  with  Margaret. 

The  carriage  was  at  the  pavement ;  the  footman  held  the 
door  open  ;  the  ladies  were  handed  within — Margaret 
wrapping  her  mantle  around  her,  and  shrinking  away  into 
a  corner  the  moment  she  entered. 

Vivia  leaned  forward,  and  held  out  her  snowy  hand,  with 
the  smile  of  an  angel. 

"  Good  night,  monsieur.     Pleasant  dreams." 

"  They  will  be  enchanting.     I  shall  dream  of  you  !  " 

<i<ady  Agnes  bent  forward  with  a  look  of  triumph. 

"  And  your  answer,  Leicester,  You  were  to  give  it  to- 
night.    Quick  I     Yes  or  no." 

"Yesl" 


1 68        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CUFFE. 


CHAPTER  XVni. 


A  DUTIFUL    GRANDDAUGHTER. 

The  drive  home  was  a  silent  one,  or,  at  least,  it  would 
have  been,  only  Vivia  chatted  like  a  magpie  all  the  way. 
Lady  Agnes,  sitting  with  her  f  ':e  to  the  horse,  looked 
thoughtful  and  preoccupied ;  ana  as  for  Margaret,  silence 
was  her  forte. 

Viyia  stopped  at  length,  with  a  poui. 

"  I  declare  you  are  too  provoking,  grandmamma  !  Here 
I  have  asked  you  three  times  what  you  thought  of  the 
Countess  Portici,  to-night,  and  her  superb  opals,  and  you've 
never  deigned  to  answer  me  once." 

Her  ladyship,  coming  out  of  a  brown  study,  looked  at 
her  displeased  granddaughter. 

"  My  dear,  excuse  me ;  I  was  thinking  of  something  else. 
What  were  you  saying  ? "  •« 

"  Ever  so  many  things ;  but  you  and  Margaret  won't 
speak  a  word.  Perhaps  Margaret  is  thinking  of  the  con- 
quest she  made  to-night." 

"  What  conquest  ?  "  asked  Lady  Agnes,  looking  suspi- 
ciously at  her  niece,  who  shrunk  further  away  as  she  was 
spoken  of,  and  had  two  scarlet  spots  on  either  cheek  quite 
foreign  to  her  usual  complexion. 

"  Tom,  of  course  1  Could  you  not  sec  he  was  her  very 
humble,  most  obedient  servant  all  the  evening  ?  I  wish 
you  joy  of  your  victory,  Margaret." 

"  Thank  you  !  You  forget  he  only  came  to  me  in  des- 
peration, because  you  discarded  him,  cousin  Victoria." 

"  Both  Tom  and  Margaret  know  better  than  to  dream  of 
such  a  thing,"  said  Lady  Agnes,  with  dignity.  "  Tom  must 
marry  a  fortune ;  for  he  can  only  take  a  poor  wife  on  the 
principle  that  what  won't  keep  one  will  keep  two.     As  for 


Kl 


A  DUTIFUL  GRANDDAUGHTER. 


169 


ij 


ny  hand- 
said   the 


Margaret,  I  shall  see  that  she   is  properly  settled  in  life, 
alter  you  are  married." 

"  Oh,  grandmamma !  "  said  Vivia,  laughing.  "  What  an 
idea  I  " 

•'  A  very  reasonable   idea,  my  dear.     You  "xpect  to  be 
married  some  time,   I   trust.      And,   apropos    .1      'rtations, 
what  do  you  call  your  tete-d-tete  this  evening  'vith 
some  nephew  ? " 

"A   cousinly  chat,  grandmamma,  of   cu  s< 
young  lady,  demurely. 

**  Ah  I  Cousinly  chat !  Precisely  I  /  \  'vhat  do  you 
think  of  this  new-found  cousin  ?  " 

Miss  Vivia  shrugged  her  pretty  shoulders  in  very  French 
fashion,  that  had  a  trick  of  grandmamma's  self  in  it. 

"  I  have  not  had  time  to  think/)f  him  at  all.  I  only  met 
him  last  night  for  the  first  time,  you  recollect.'^ 

"  And  how  long  does  it  take  to  form  your  mighty  opin- 
ions. Mademoiselle  Talleyrand  ?     Do  you  like  him  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  that  is,  I  don't  know." 

<'  Do  you  like  him  better  than  the  Marquis  de  St. 
Hilary?" 

"  Oh,  grandmamma  !  "  said  Vivia,  blushing  vividly. 

"  You  have  changed  your  opinions,  if  you  do,"  said  Lady 
Agnes,  a  little  maliciously.  "  Long  ago,  when  Sir  Roland 
gave  you  the  pony,  named  Leicester,  after  this  new-found 
cousin,  you  insisted  on  changing  the  name  to  Claude,  eti 
amour.     Do  you  recollect  ? " 

"  Grandmamma  !     I  was  such  a  goose,  then." 

"  Exactly.  And  in  six  years  more,  when  you  look  back, 
you  will  think  you  were  just  as  great  a  goose  now.  Of 
course,  you  have  decided  that  Leicester  is  handsome  ? " 

"  There  can  be  but  one  opinion  about  that,"  said  the 
young  lady,  as  the  carriage  stopped  before  the  door,  and 
she  tripped  lightly  up  the  steps,  humming  an  air  from 
♦'  Undine." 

A  most  aristocratic  and  sleepy  porter  threw  open  the 
door,  and  they  entered  the  brilliantly-lighted  hall. 

Margaret,  with  a  \»ery  brief  good  night,  went  to  her  room  ; 
and  Vivia,  gayly  kissing  her  grandmother,  was  about  to 
follow,  when  that  lady  detained  her,  and  opened  the  draw- 
ing-roon    oor. 


lyo        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CUFFE. 

'*  Not  good  night,  Victoria.  It  is  only  ten  o'clock,  and 
too  early  to  think  of  bed.  Come  in  here.  I  have  five 
words  to  say  to  you,  that  may  as  well  be  said  to-night  as 
to-morrow." 

Very  much  surprised  at  grandmamma's  grave  tone,  Vic- 
toria followed  her  into  the  deserted  drawing-room,  on  whose 
marble  hearth  a  few  red  embers  still  glowed  ;  for  the  May 
evenings  were  chilly,  and  her  ladyship  liked  fires.  The  girl 
sat  down  on  a  low  ottoman  beside  the  elder  lady's  couch, 
looking  very  pretty  with  flushed  cheeks  and  her  brilliant 
eyes,  her  golden  hair  falling  damp  and  uncurled  over  her 
shoulders,  from  which  the  gay  Of)era-cloak  was  loosely  slip- 
ping to  the  floor.  She  lifted  up  an  innocent,  inquiring  face, 
like  that  of  a  little  child. 

"  What  is  it,  ma  m^re  ?  " 

Lady  Agnes  took  one  tiny,  taper  hand,  spotless  and  ring- 
less  as  the  free  young  heart.     Miss  Shirley  never  wore  rings. 

'*  Pretty  little  hand  I  "  she  said,  caressing  it,  the  cold  blue 
eyes  looking  fondly  down  into  the  beautiful  upturned  face  ; 
**  and  how  well  an  engagement-ring  would  become  it  I  " 

"  Oh,  grandmamma  1 " 

*'  You  expect  to  wear  an  engagement  ring  some  time,  my 
dear  I     You  do  not  always  expect  to  be  Miss  Shirley  ?  " 

"  I  wish  I  could  be.  It  is  such  a  pretty  name,  I  never 
want  to  change  it  1"  ' 

"  Little  simpleton  I  If  I  have'  my  way,  you  shall  change 
it  within  two  months  1  "  _^.     , 

"  Why,  grandmamma  !  " 

"  Don't  look  so  astonished,  child.  One  would  think  you 
never  had  such  an  idea  as  marriage  in  your  life  1 " 

"  But,  grandmamma,  I  don't  want  to  be  married  !  "  said 
mademoiselle,  with  the  prettiest  pout  in  the  world ;  "  it 
is  so  dowdyish  I  And  then  I  am  too  young — I  am  only 
eighteen  1  " 

"  Eighteen  is  an  excellent  marriageable  age,  my  dear — I 
was  married  a  year  younger  than  that  I  " 

"  Grandmamma,  have  you  got  tired  of  me  all  of  a  sudden, 
that  you  want  to  send  me  away  ?     What  have  I  done  ?  " 

"  You  great  baby  !  What  has  it  done  ?  "  mimicking  the 
young  lady's  tone.  "  I  shall  have  you  put  in  pinafores  and 
sent  back  to  the  nursery,  if  you  don't  learn  to  talk  sense  1 


I 

-4 

-i 

'4 


•X 


A  DUTIFUI,  GRANDDAUGHTER. 


171 


r     f 


Do  you  know  why  I  have  rejected  all  the  eligible  offers  you 
have  had  this  winter  ?  " 

"  Because  you  are  the  dearest,  kindest  grandmamma  in 
the  world,  and  you  knew  your  Vic  did  not  want  to  accept 
any  of  them  I  " 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind  I  They  have  been  rejected  be- 
cause I  have  reserved  you,  since  you  were  twelve  years  old, 
for  another  I  " 

Up  flew  the  flaxen  eyebrows,  wide  opened  the  v  »olet  eyes, 
in  undisguised  amaze. 

*'  Since  I  was  twelve  years  old  1  Why,  I  was  only  that 
age  when  I  came  first  from  France." 

"  Right  !  And  from  the  first  moment  I  saw  you,  your 
destiny  was  settled  in  my  mind." 

Lady  Agnes  was  certainly  a  wonderful  woman.  She 
ought  to  have  been  at  the  head  of  a  nation  instead  of  at  the 
head  of  the  fashionable  society  of  London.  The  calm 
consciousness  of  triumph  radiated  her  pale  face  now,  and 
she  looked  down  like  an  empress  on  the  flaxen-haired  fairy 
at  her  feet,  smiling,  too,  at  the  look  of  unutterable  wonder 
on  the  pretty  countenance.   ' 

"  Can  you  guess  who  this  favored  gentleman  is,  my 
dear  ? " 

"  Guess!     Oh,  dear  me,  no,  grandmamma  1 " 

*'  Try  1 " 

"  It  can't  be— it  can't  be " 

"Who?"  said  Lady  Agnes,  curiously,  as  she  ^  stopped 
with  an  irrepressible  little  laugh. 

"  Tom  1     You  can  never  mean  Tom,  grandmamma  ?  " 

"  Tom  1  Oh,  what  a  child  1  You  may  well  call  yourself 
a  goose  1  Of  course  not,  you  little  idiot.  I  mean  a  very  dif- 
erent  person,  indeed — no  one  else  than  Leicester  Cliffe  I  " 

The  hand  Lady  Agnes  held  was  suddenly  snatched  away, 
and  the  girl  covered  her  face  with  both,  with  a  beautiful 
movement  of  modesty.  Lady  Agnes  laughed — her  short, 
satirical  laugh. 

"  Don't  blush,  dear  child  1  There  is  nobody  here  but 
grandmamma  to  see  it  1  What  do  you  think  of  your  in- 
tended bridegroom  ? " 

"  To  think  that  I  should  have  laughed  and  talked  with 
him  as  I  did  to-night  1  "  said  Vivia,  in  a  choking  voice,  as 


m 

ill 


17a        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CLIFFE. 

she  turned  away  her  hidden  face,  •*  and   he   knowing  this  1 
Oh,  grandmamma,  what  have  you  tlone  ?  " 

"  Nothing  that  you  need  go  into  hysterics  about  I  Are 
you  never  going  to  laugh  and  talk  with  the  person  you  in- 
tend to  marry  ?" 

She  did  not  speak,  and  the  lady  saw  that  the  averted 
cheek  was  scarlet.  ^   .'^' 

"  You  are  right  in  thinking  he  knows  it.  He  does  ;  I 
told  him  to-day,  and  he  has  consented  1  " 

No  answer. 

"  He  admires  you  exceedingly — he  loves  you,  I  am  sure, 
and  will  tell  you  so  at  the  proper  opportunity.  Nothing 
could  be  mjre  desirable,  nothing  more  suitable  than  this 
match.  I  have  set  my  heart  on  it,  and  so  has  Sir  Roland, 
for  years.  You  will  be  the  happiest  bride  in  the  world,  my 
daughter." 

The  heiress  of  Castle  Cliffe,  one  hand  still  shading  the 
averted  face,  the  other  again  held  in  grandmamma's,  the 
scarlet  cheek  veiled  by  the  falling  hair,  the  graceful  little 
figure  drooping,  never  spoke  or  looked  round. 

"  He  is  everything  the  most  romantic  maiden  could  wish 
— young,  handsome,  agreeable,  a  man  and  a  gentleman, 
every  inch  1  Then  he  is  a  Cliffe — not  your  cousin,  though  : 
cousins  should  never  marry — and  heir  to  a  fortune  second 
only  to  your  own." 

Still  silent. 

"  Child  1  "  cried  Lady  Agnes,  impatiently,  "  what  are  you 
thinking  of  ?  are  you  asleep  ?  do  you  hear  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  grandmamma." 

"Then  why  don't  you  answer?  You  will  never  dream 
of  refusing,  surely." 

«'Nol" 

It  came  so  hesitatingly,  though,  that  the  lady,  who  had 
been  leaning  easily  back,  sat  up  very  straight  and  looked  at 
her. 

"  Victoria,  I  am  surprised  at  you  I  Did  you  ever  dream 
for  a  moment  you  would  be  left  to  choose  any  stray  cox- 
comb, such  as  girls  are  given  to  take  a  fancy  to  1  Have 
you  not  always  understood  that  your  marriage  was  to  be 
arranged  by  your  guardians,  myself  and  your  father?  " 

"  Does  papa  know  of  this  ?  " 


A  DUTIFUL  GRANDDAUGHTER. 


173 


"  Certainly  I     I  told  him  to-day,  after  dinner." 

Vivia  remembered,  now,  that  papa  and  grandmamma  had 
been  closeted  in  close  converse  for  over  an  hour,  after  din- 
ner ;  and  how  the  colonel  had  come  out,  looking  very  grave, 
and  had  given  her  a  glance  in  passing,  half-tender,  half- 
mirthful,  half-sad ;  had  declined  accom[)anying  them  to  the 
theater,  and  had  solaced  himself  with  cigars  all  the  rest  of 
the  afternoon.     She  started  up  now  at  the  recollection. 

"  Grandmamma,  1  must  see  papa  I  I  must  speak  to  papa 
about  this  to-night  1 " 

Lady  Agnes  sat  up  very  stately  and  displeased. 

"  Is  it  necessary  you  should  speak  to  him  before  you  an- 
swer me,  Miss  Shirley  ?  " 

"  Oh,  grandmamm.i,  don't  be  angry  !  but  I  feel  so — so 
strange  ;  and  it  is  all  so  sudden  and  queer  I  " 

••  Remember,  Victoria,  that  I  have  set  my  heart  on  this 
matter,  and  that  it  has  been  set  on  it  for  years.  Take  care 
you  do  not  disappoint  me  1  " 

Victoria  knelt  softly  down,  her  beautiful  eyes  filled  with 
tears,  and  touched  the  still  smooth  white  hand  with  her 
lips. 

"Grandmamma,  you  know  I  would  not  disappoint  you 
for  the  world  I  Surely,  it  is  little  as  I  can  do,  after  all  these 
years  '^f  care  and  love,  to  yield  my  will  to  yours  1  But,  I 
must—  f  must  see  papa  I  " 

"  Very  well.  You  will  find  him  in  the  library,  I  dare  say ; 
but  I  mu,  t  have  your  answer  to-night." 

"  You  shall.     I  will  be  back  here  in  ten  minutes." 

"  That  is  my  dutiful  little  granddaughter,"  .snid  Lady 
Agnes,  stooping  to  touch  the  pretty  pleading  Ups  with  her 
own.     "  Go,  then  ;  I  will  wait  here." 

The  fairy  figure  with  he  golden  hair  floa^Cfl  down  the 
staircase,  through  the  hall,  and  into  the  libraiy.  An  odor 
met  her  at  the  door — not  the  odor  of  sanctity,  but  the  fra- 
grant one  of  cigars,  heralding  the  gentleman  wl)o  sat  in  the 
crimson  armchair  by  the  window.  The  gas  had  been 
turned  down,  and  one  flickering  ray  alone  pierced  the  dark- 
ness like  a  lance.  The  lace  curtains  had  been  drawn  back, 
and  the  pale  starlight  shone  in  and  rested  on  the  colonel, 
sitting  with  his  back  to  the  door,  and  his  eyes  looking  up 
at  their  tremulous  beauty.     One  hand  rested  on  a  paper 


/ 


\ 


r 

"  It 

i':      •" 

and  all 

i ' 

"  Yo 

■* 

i^ 

174       THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTILE  CUFFE. 

on  his  knee ;  the  other  absently  held  a  cigar  that  had  gone 
out  long  ago.  The  handsome  and  ever  gay  face  looked 
strangely  pale  and  grave,  and  he  did  not  see  the  figure  fioat- 
;ng  through  the  shadowy  room,  with  wan  green  emeralds 
flashing  fe3bly  on  the  white  neck,  until  it  sunk  down  with  a 
cry  of  ♦'  Oil,  papa  '  "  beside  him  ;  and  a  pretty  flushed  face, 
and  a  shov/er  of  gold  hair,  fell  bowed  on  his  knee.  Then 
he  looked  do\vn  a':  it,  not  in  surprise,  but  with  the  same 
glanr3,  half-tender,  half-gay,    half-sad. 

"  Well,  Vivia,  it  has  come  at  last,  and  my  little  girl  has 
found  out  sho  is  no  longer  a  child." 

It  WIS  a  characteristic  trifle — character  is  always  shown 
best  in  trifles — that  while  Lady  Agnes,  overlooking  in  her 
grand  and  lofty  way  the  very  memory  of  so  plebeian  a  per- 
sonage as  t\\2  dead  French  actress,  always  called  her  grand- 
daughter Victoria,  not  Vivia,  the  colonel  scarcely  ever 
thought  of  calling  her  anything  else. 

"  Papa  1  papa  I  "  sobbed  Vivia,  he'*  voice  losing  itself  in  a 
sob.     *•  I  never  thought  of  this  !  " 

He  laid  his  hand  lovingly  on  the  little  bowed  head. 

**  I  have  been  sharper-eyed  than  you,  Vivia,  and  have  fore- 
seen what  was  coming  long  ago,  though  my  lady-mother  has 
never  given  me  credit  for  so  much  penetration.  She  has 
told  yot',,  to-night,  then  ?  " 

"This  moment,  papa." 

"And  whit  has  my  Vivia  said?" 

"  Oh,  pap.i !  Do  you  think  I  could  say  anything  until 
I  had  seen  you  ?  " 

**  My  darling,  I  have  not  one  word  to  say  in  the  matter. 
Vivia  shall  please  herself." 

"  Oil,  I  don't  know  what  to  say  1  I  don't  know  what  to 
dol  It  is  all  so  sudden  and  so  unexpected!  and  I  don't 
want  to  be  mirried  at  all  1  Oh  1  I  wish  I  was  back  in  my 
beautiful  France,  in  my  dear,  dear  old  convent-home,  where 
I  was  always  so  peaceful  and  so  happy  1 " 

"  Foolish  child  1 "  said  the  colonel,  smiling  in  spite  o£ 
himself  at  the  storm  of  childish  distress,  "  is  it  then  so 
dreadful  a  thing  to  be  married  ? " 

"  It   is    dreadful   to  leave  you,   papa,  and  grandmamma, 
that  I  love." 
Li  forget,  Vivia,  that  it  is  grandmamma  who  is"  send- 


A  DUTIFUI<  GRANDDAUGHTER. 


.t 


y 


175 


ing  you  away  !  And  then  you  will  have  Leicester  Cliflfe  to 
love — your  bridegroom,  you  know — handsome  and  dashing 
— and  you  will 'soon  forget  us  old  folks  altogether!  "  laugh- 
ing still,  but  with  a  little  tremor  of  the  voice. 

"  Papa,  when  I  forget  you,  I  will  be  dead  !  " 

One  little  hand  lay  in  his,  and  he  lifted  it  to  his  lips, 
while  the  stars  shook  as  if  seen  through  water. 

"  When  is  my  Vivia  to  answer  grandmamma  ?  " 

"  To-night." 

"  And  what  does  she  intend  to  say  ?  " 

"  Papa,  you  know  I  must  say  Yes  I  " 

His  hand  closed  over  hers,  and  his  mouth  grew  stern  and 
resolute,  as  Lady  Agnes  had  seen  it  once  eighteen  years 
before. 

"  Never,  my  giil,  unless  you  wish  it !  The  ambitious 
dreams  of  all  the  Cliffes  and  Shirleys  that  ever  existed, 
from  the  first  of  them  who  spoke  English  at  the  Tower  of 
IJabel,  shall  not  weigh  one  feather  in  the  scale  against  my 
daughter's  inclination  1  Let  your  heart  answer,  Vivia,  Yes 
or  No,  as  it  chooses ;  and  no  one  living  shall  gainsay  it !  " 

Vivia  looked  half-frightened  at  the  outbreak,  and  clung 
closer  to  his  protecting  arm. 

"  Dear,  dear  papa  I  how  good  you  arc  to  me  !  Oh,  the 
most  miserable  thing  about  the  whole  affair  is,  ^hat  L  shall 
have  to  leave  you  !  "  ^ 

He  laughed  his  own  gay,  careless  laugh. 

"  Oh,  if  that  be  all,  mignonne,  we  must  get  over  the  ob- 
jection. You  don't  mean  to  live  and  die  an  old  maid  for 
papa's  sake,  surely !  I  have  a  plan  of  my  own,  when  this 
wedding  comes  off,  that  I  shall  tell  you  about  presently ; 
mean  time  grandmamma  is  waiting  for  you  to  say  Yes. 
It  will  be  Yes,  w  ill  it  not  ?  " 

"  Will  you  consent,  papa  ?  " 

"  My  consent  depends  on  yours.  You're  sure  you  have 
no  personal  objection  to  this  young  man  ? " 

"  None  at  all,  papa.     How  could  I  ?  " 

"  True  ;  he  is  good-looking  and  spirited — ever}'thing  the 
veriest  heroine  of  romance  could  desire ;  and  the  whole 
affair  i.'  ver}^  much  like  a  romance  itself,  I  must  say.  And 
you  don't — but  I  hardly  need  ask  that  question — you  don't 
care  for  any  one  else  ? " 


176        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CUFFE. 


"  Papa,  you  know  I  don't  1  " 

"  Very  good  I  I  see  no  reason,  then,  why  you  should  not 
marry  him  to-morrow.  If  the  hero  of  this  sentimental  plan  of 
grandmamma's  had  been  any  other  man  than  Leicester  Cliffe, 
I  should  not  have  listened  to  it  for  a  moment ;  but  as  it  is, 
I  fancy  it's  all  right ;  and  we  must  conclude  it's  one  of  the 
marriages  made  in  heaven.  I  own  1  have  a  weakness  for 
people  falling  in  love  in  the  good  old  orthodox  way,  as  I 
did  myself  long  ago.     Look  here,  Vivia." 

Vivia  had  often  noticed  a  slender  gold  chain  that  her 
father  wore  round  his  neck,  and  wondered  what  talisman 
was  attached.  Now  he  withdrew  it,  displaying  a  locket, 
which  he  opened  and  handed  to  her.  Vivia  looked  it  with 
awe.  The  beautiful  uplifted  eyes  ;  the  dark  hair,  half  waves, 
half  curls,  falling  back  from  the  oval  face  ;  the  superb  lips 
smiling  upon  the  gazer — she  knew  it  well.  Reverentially 
she  lifted  it  to  her  lips. 

*•  It  is  my  mamma — my  dear  dead  mamma  1 " 

"It  is!  and  next  to  you,  my  Vivia,  I  have  prized' it 
through  all  those  years  as  the  most  precious  thing  I  pos- 
sessed. I  give  it  to  you,  now,  and  you  must  wear  it  all  your 
life!" 

"  I  shall  wear  it  over  my  heart  till  I  die  I     But,  papa ■" 

She  had  been  looking  at  it  with  strange  intentness,  and 
now  she  glanced  up  at  him  with  a  puzzled  face. 

"  Well,  Vivia  ?  "  ' 

"  Papa,  it  is  the  oddest  thing ;  but,  do  you  know,  I  think 
it  resembles  somebody  I've  seen." 

"  Who  ? " 

"  You  will  laugh,  perhaps,  but  it  is  Barbara  Black  I  It 
is  a  long  time  since  I  have  seen  her ;  but  I  have  a  good 
memory  for  faces,  and  I  do  think  she  looks  like  this." 

The  colonel  leaned  forward  and  looked  at  it  thoughtfully. 

"I  have  noticed  it  before.  There  is  something  in  the 
turn  of  the  head  and  in  the  smile  that  is  like  Barbara ;  but 
we  see  those  chance  resemblances  every  day.  Are  you  not 
afraid  Lady  Agnes  will  be  tired  waiting  ?  " 

•^  I  will  go  to  her  in  a  moment,  papa !  "  she  said,  kissing 
the  likeness  again,  and   placing  it  round  her  neck.     "  But 

first  tell  me  about  the  plan  you  spoke  of,  after  I  am "  she 

stopped,  blushing. 


w 
o 

V 
V 

a 

s 
\ 
( 


A  DUTIFUI.  GRANDDAUGHTER. 


177 


i- 


«'  Married,  Vivia  !  "  he  said,  laughing. 

"Yes,  papa.     You  spoke  of  a  plan,  you  know  ?  "         *^ 

"  I  did,  and  here  it  is  1 "  '  .         \ 

He  pointed,  as  he-  spoke,  to  the  paper,  which  was  filled 
with  accounts  of  the  war,  whose  echo  from  the  frozen  shores 
of  Russia  was  then  clanging  through  the  world.  A  great 
victory  had  just  been  gained,  and  the  columns  were  dark 
with  deeds  of  blood  and  heroism.  Vivia  clasped  her  hands, 
and  turned  pale,  with  a  presentiment  of  what  was  coming. 

"  It  is  hardly  the  thing,"  said  the  colonel,  •*  that  an  old 
soldier,  like  myself,  should  loiter  here  in  inglorious  idleness, 
while  such  deeds  as  these  are  making  men  famous  every 
day.  Now  that  Vivia  is  to  leave,  the  old  house  at  home 
will  be  rather  dreary  for  comfort,  and  I  shall  be  off  for 
Sebastopol  within  a  week  after  you  become  Mrs.  Cliffe." 

She  did  not  sp*eak.  She  clasped  her  hands  on  his  shoul- 
der, and  dropped  her  face  thereon. 

"  The  plan  is — Lady  Agnes  has  the  whole  thing  arranged 
— that  you  and  she  and  Leicester  (for  she  intends  accom- 
panying you)  are  to  pass  the  summer  in  France  and  Swit- 
zerland, the  winter  in  Italy,  enjoy  the  carnival  in  Venice, 
Holy  Week  in  Rome,  and  come  back  to  Cliftonlea  in  the 
following  spring,  so  that  you  will  be  a  whole  year  absent. 
Meantime  I  shall  be  storming  redoubts,  and  leading  forlorn 
hopes,  and  writing  letters,  in  the  Russian  trenches,  to  my 
pretty  daughter,  who  will  be- 

"  Praying  for  you,  papa  ! 

He  had  felt  his  shoulder  growing  wet  with  tears,  and  be- 
fore he  could  speak,  she  had  risen  and  glided  lightly  from 
the  room. 

Up-stairs,  Lady  Agnes  was  pacing  up  and  down,  in  a 
little  fever  of  impatience.  Vivia  paused  for  a  moment  as 
she  passed  on  her  way  to  her  own  room. 

"  I  will  do  everything  you  wish,  grandmamma  1 "  she  said. 
"  Good  night !  " 

Conquering  Lady  Agnes  1  What  a  radiant  smile  she 
cast  after  the  graceful  form,  disappearing  in  its  own  cham- 
ber. But  once  there,  the  bride-elect  fell  down  on  her  knees 
by  the  window,  and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  feeling 
that  the  shining  stream  along  which  she  had  floated  all  her 
life  was  becoming  turbid  and  rough,  and  that  she  was  drift- 


>> 


>> 


178       THE  HEIRESS  OK  CASTLE  CUFFE. 

ing,  without  rudder  or  compass,  into  an  unknown  sea,  void 
of  sunshine  or  shore.  So  long  she  knelt  there,  that  the 
stars  waxed  pale  and  went  dimly  out,  one  by  one,  before 
the  gray  eyes  of  the  coming  morning,  and  one — the  morn- 
ing star — looked  brightly  down  on  her  alone.  Well  might 
Vivia  keep  vigil.  In  one  hour  her  whole  childhood  had 
passed  from  her  like  a  dream. 


\ 


:P 


. 


^li 


BACK  AGAIN. 


179 


N. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


BACK  AGAIN. 


'f\ 


Once  more  the  cathedral-bells  were  cracking  their  brazen 
throats  ringing  out  peals  of  joy ;  once  more  there  were 
triumphal  arches  all  along  High  street  to  the  very  gates  of 
Castle  Cliffc,  with  "  Welcome,  Rose  of  Sussex  1 "  "  Long 
life  and  happiness  to  the  heiress  of  Castle  Cliffe  I "  and 
a  score  of  other  flaming  mottoes ;  once  more  the  charity- 
children  turned  out  to  strew  the  road  with  flowers;  once 
more  the  town  was  assembled  in  gala  attire ;  once  more 
there  were  to  be  public  feaSting  and  rejoicing,  and  beer  and 
beef  for  every  '*  chawbacon  "  in  Sussex,  a//  lihitum.  That 
day  month  there  had  been  shouting  for  the  ^  y  Queen — 
now  there  was  shouting  for  a  far  greater  per^  .age,  no  less 
than  the  heiress  of  Castle  Cliffe. 

In  the  sunshine  of  a  glorious  June  afterr  m,  under  the 
arches  of  evergreen,  and  over  the  flower-strt  vn  road,  came 
the  triumphal  chariot  of  the  heiress,  o+bfwise  a  grand 
barouche,  drawn  by  four  handsome  graj  •,  :n  silver-plated 
harness,  with  outriders.  In  this  barouche  sat  the  colonel 
and  Miss  Shirley,  Lady  Agnes  and  Leicester  Cliffe.  The 
young  lady  was  kept  busy  bowing;  for,  as  the  crowd  saw 
the  bright,  smiling  face,  they  hurrahed  again  and  again,  with 
much  the  same  enthusiasm  as  that  which  made  the  Scotch 
Commons  shout  when  Mary  Stuart  rode  an)  ig  them,  "God 
bless  that  sweet  face  I"  In  the  next  cairiage  came  Sir 
Roland  and  Lord  Lisle,  Tom  and  Margaret  Shirley,  and  the 
two  that  followed  were  filled  with  a  crowd  of  ladies  and 
gentleman  from  the  city,  whom  Lady  Agnes  had  brought 
down,  though  they  knew  it  not,  to  be  present  at  her  grand- 
daughter's wedding. 

The  great  gates  swung  majestically  back  under  the  carved 


I 


■ 


I 


\ 


1 


.80        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CLIFFE. 

arch,  emblazoned  with  the  escutcheon  of  the  Cliffs,  to  let 
the  car  of  triumph  in ;  and  the  lodge-keeper  stood  in  the 
door  of  the  Italian  cottage,  to  bow  to  the  passing  princess. 
The  flag  on  the  domed  roof,  flung  out  its  folds  proudly  to 
the  breeze,  and  a  long  line  of  servants,  many  old  and  gray 
in  the  service  of  the  family,  stood  drawn  up  in  the  hall  to 
bid  them  welcome.  Thore,  too,  stood  Mr.  Sweet,  ever  smil- 
ir-'  and  debonair,  ibe  sunshine  seeming  to  glint  and  scin- 
tillate in  his  yellow  hair  and  whiskers,  in  his  jingling 
jewelry  and  smiling  mouth,  until  he  made  one  wink  again  to 
look  at  him.  All  sorts  of  miracles  had  been  working  in  the 
house  for  the  last  fortnight.  A  whole  regiment  of  up- 
holsterers had  been  sent  down  from  London,  to  set  every 
room  topsy-turvey,  and  the  servants  distracted,  and  to  make 
them  perfectly  resplendent  with  damask  and  velvet.  And 
now  the  heiress  of  all  this  wealth  and  splendor,  fair  and 
youthful,  her  eyes  filling  with  (ears,  was  entering,  leaning  on 
the  arm  of  her  hero  of  a  father,  stately  and  handsome ;  and 
some  of  the  servants  were  wiping  their  eyes,  too,  and  whis- 
pering how  like  she  was  to  all  the  Clift'es  generally,  but  partic- 
ularly to  the  abbess,  whose  portrait  hung  in  the  hall  above. 
Marshaled  by  the  housekeeper,  everybody  hurried  off  to 
their  rooms  to  dress  for  dinner.  Vivia  went  to  hers  (the 
Rose  Room),  where  she  had  slept  the  first  night  she  ever 
entered  Castle  Cliffe.  In  all  the  changes  and  preparations  it 
had  not  been  altered,  by  her  own  especial  request ;  and  she 
danced  round  it  like  the  happy  child  she  was,  glad  to  be 
home  again.  There  stood  the  dainty  bed  in  the  recess, 
guarded  by  the  watchful  ansjel ;  there  was  the  picture  over 
the  mantel — the  majestic  figure,  with  the  halo  round  the 
head,  blessing  little  children ;  and  there,  yes,  there  was  one 
change,  there  was  another  picture — a  fair-haired  boy,  with  a 
face  beautiful  as  an  angel ;  the  picture  that  had  once  hung 
in  the  villa  in  Cliffewood,  and  sent  to  her  by  Sir  Roland 
within  the  last  fortnight,  as  having  decidedly  the  best  right 
to  it.  Alone  as  she  was,  her  cheeks  grew  hot  and  crimson 
at  the  sight,  and  then  she  laughed  to  herself  and  kissed  her 
finger-tips  to  it,  and  resigned  herself  into  the  hands  of  Jean- 
nette,  to  make  her  pretty  for  dinner.  And  pretty  she  did 
look  when  it  was  all  over;  for  she  was  too  impatient  to  go 
through  the  house  to  see  the  changes,  to  waste  time  over 


BACK  AGAIN. 


i8i 


y 

e 
d 


n 
d 


^ 


her  toilet.  Mr.  Sweet,  standing  in  the  hall  talking  to  the 
housekeeper,  looked  at  her,  quite  lost  in  admiration,  as  she 
came  out  in  a  floating  amplitude  of  bright  blue  silk,  low- 
necked  and  short-sleeved,  according  to  her  cool  custom  ; 
her  golden  hair,  freshly  curled,  falling  around  her  in  an  amber 
cloud  ;  her  blue  eyes  shining,  her  rounded  cheeks  flushed. 
Low  he  bent  before  her,  with  a  gleam  in  his  eyes  that  was 
half  admiration,  half  derision.  Now,  Vivia  did  not  like  Mr. 
Sweet,  and  Mr.  Sweet  was  not  fond  of  Vivia.  The  young 
lady  had  an  unwinking  way  of  looking  out  of  her  great  blue 
eyes,  and  discerning  tinsel  from  gold,  despite  its  pitiful  glis- 
tening, with  much  of  her  grandmother's  eagle  glance ;  and 
Mr.  Sweet  always  shrunk  a  little  under  i-  Die  fearless,  guilt- 
less eyes. 

"He  is  too  sweet  to  be  wholesome,  Tom,  '  she  had  said 
once  to  her  cousin.  "  No  man  that  always  smiles  and  never 
frowns,  is  anything  but  a  hypocrite." 

But  to-day  she  was  at  peace  with  the  world  and  all  therein, 
and  she  bent  her  pretty  head  and  shimmering  curls  till  they 
flashed  back  the  sunlight,  and  then  danced  down  the  hall 
like  an  incarnate  sunbeam  herself. 

It  was  well  Vivia  knew  the  old  house  by  heart,  or  she  cer- 
tainly would  have  got  lost  in  the  labyrinth  of  halls,  and  cor- 
ridors, and  passages,  changed  as  they  were  now.  A  certain 
suite  of  oak  rooms  in  the  Agnes  Tower,  with  windows  facing 
the  east — she  liked  a  sunny  eastern  prospect — had  been,  by 
the  orders  of  Lady  Agnes,  fitted  up  ostensibly  for  Miss 
Shirley ;  in  reality,  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Clifife.  There  was  a 
boudoir  whose  very  carpet  was  a  miracle  in  itself — violets 
and  forget-me-nots  so  natural  that  you  scarcely  dared  step 
on  them,  on  a  groundwork  of  purest  white,  like  flowers 
blooming  in  a  snow-bank.  There  were  window  curtains  of 
blue  satin,  with  silvet  embroidery,  under  white  lace ;  walls 
paneled  in  azure  satin  and  hung  with  exquisite  pictures, 
each  of  which  had  cost,  in  Italy  and  Germany,  a  small  for- 
tune in  itself.  There  was  a  wonderful  cabinet  of  ebony  and 
gold,  vases  half  as  tall  as  herself,  a  ceiling  where  silver  stars 
shone  on  a  blue  ground  and  chairs  of  some  white  wood, 
that  looked  like  ivory,  cushioned  in  blue  satin.  There  was 
a  rosewood  piano  in  one  corner,  'vith  the  music  she  liked  on 
the  rack  beside  it.     There  were  carved  swinging-shelves  of  the 


n 


?: 


183        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTILE  CWFFE. 

same  white  wood,  with  all  her  favorite  authors,  gayly  bound, 
the'"*'>n,  from  William  Shakespeare  to  Charles  Dickens. 
Theix,  were  hot-house  flowers  on  the  table,  and  sweet-voiced 
canaries,  singing  in  silver-gilt  cages ;  and  a  portrait  of  her- 
self, resplendent  in  the  dress  she  had  worn  to  Court,  smiling 
serenel}^  down  on  all.      And — 

"  D2ar,  dear  grandmamma  I  *'  she  murmured.  "  How 
good,  how  kind,  how  generous  she  is  1  " 

The  next  of  the  suite  was  an  oratory — a  queer  room  fltted 
up  as  a  curiosity,  to  be  shown  to  visitors.  The  floor  was 
of  black  polished  oak,  inlaid  with  polished  wood  of  different 
colors  in  fanciful  mosaic,  and  slippery  as  ice.  The  walls 
were  hung  with  faded  silken  arras,  representing  the  adven- 
tures of  Genevieve  of  Brabant,  the  work  of  some  ancestress, 
whose  fingers  had  long  ago  moldered  into  dust ;  and  stand- 
ing out  on  brackets  around  the  four  walls  was  carved  in 
ebony  the  W'<  y  of  the  Cross,  representing  the  whole  mourn- 
ful journey  to  Calvary,  from  the  Judgment  Hall  of  Pilate  to 
the  sepulcher  wherein  no  man  had  ever  lain  before.  There 
was  a  great  altar  carved  in  oak,  with  a  full  length  statue  of 
the  Madonna  crushing  the  head  of  the  Serpent,  and  opposite 
was  another  of  Eve  being  tempted  by  the  same  enemy  of 
mankind.  A  dingy  painting  of  the  Last  Supper  served  for 
an  altar-piece  ;  before,  it  was  a  prie-dieu,  or  kneeling-bench, 
carved  also  in  ebony,  with  a  great  illuminated  Roman  missal 
thereon.  A  gothic  window  of  stained  glass,  with  the  figures  of 
the  Twelve  Apostles  gorgeously  painted,  admitted  the  after- 
noon sunshine  in  rainbow  hues.  Everything  in  this  room,  a 
visitor  would  think,  was  at  least  a  century  old.  Nothing  of 
the  kind ;  Lady  Agnes  had  had  thcni  all  brought  from  (ler- 
many  for  the  occasion.  Vivia  looked  round  her  in  delight, 
and  having  knelt  for  a  moment  to  murmur  a  prayer  before 
the  grand  altar,  passed  on  to  the  next — the  dressing-room. 
It  was  a  bath-room  as   well   as  a  dressing-room ;  the  walls 

reaching  from  floor  to  ceiling, 
either  hand.  On  one  of  the 
other-of-pcarl,  and  die  carpet 
iiiison.  The  next  was  the  bed- 
chamber, a  super  room,  with  four  large  windows  draped  in 
green  velvet,  cut  ai  antique  points,  and  lined  with  white 
satin,    overlooking    ui.   extensive    prospect  of  terraces  and 


were  incrusted  with  mirror 
with  fragrant  cedar  closets 
tables  lay  a  dressing-case  ' 
and  hangings  we        f  darl 


BACK  AGAIN. 


133 


shrubbery,  and  plantations  and  avenues.  Green  and  white 
were  the  pervading  tints  throughout  the  room  ;  the  bed- 
hangings  were  of  those  shades ;  the  easy  chairs  and  lounges 
were  upholstered  in  green  velvet,  and  the  c  irpet  looked  like 
green  moss  with  wreaths  of  white  roses  laid  on  it.  And 
then  came  another  dressing-room,  whose  shades  were  am- 
ber and  jet,  which  made  Vivia  open  her  eyes ;  and  beyond 
it  there  was  a  little  study,  with  rosewood  slielves  round  three 
sides  of  the  room,  well  filled  with  books,  and  there  was  a 
gentleman's  Turkish  dressing-gown  of  bri<^ht  scarlet  and 
yellow,  lying  over  the  back  of  an  arin-chnir;  and  on  the 
table  was  a  long  Turkish  pipe,  with  an  amber  mouth-piece, 
and  beside  a  crimsom  fez.  The  other  side  of  the  room 
seemed  to  be  a  small  armory,  for  there  were  swords  and 
daggers  of  Damascus  steel,  whose  keen  blue  glitter  made 
her  flesh  creep ;  and  pistols  and  revolvers,  at  sight  of  which 
she  recoiled  precipitately  to  the  other  end  of  the  room. 

"  Grandmamma  is  determined  <;hat  I  shall  have  a  variety 
of  dressing-rooms!"  thought  Vivia  in  horrified  surprise; 
•'  but  what  all  those  horrid  things  are  for,  I  cannot  imagine  I 
Does  she  expect  me  to  wear  that  red  and  yellow  dressing- 
gown  and  flaming  cap,  and  smoke  thai  dreadful  long-stemmed 
chilbouque,  I  wonder  }     I  shall  go  and  see  I  " 

.  Each  of  those  rooms  had  two  doors,  one  opening  on  the 
outer  hall,  the  other  in  a  straight  line  of  communication  with 
each  other.  Vivia  hurried  on  to  the  beautiful  boudoir,  and 
with  the  free,  light  elastic  step  peculiar  to  her,  traversed  the 
hall  and  corridor,  the  last  of  which  was  her  own.  The  door 
of  the  lady's  dressing-room  was  ajar,  and  the  girl  looked  in. 

"  Grandmamma,  I  have  been  through  the  rooms  and  they 
are  charming  1     I  never  saw  anything  prettier  in  my  life  1  " 

Lady  Agnes  was  sitting  listlessly,  with  her  eyes  closed  and 
her  hands  folded,  before  a  great  Psyche  mirror,  under  the 
hands  of  her  maid.  At  the  sound  of  the  voice,  she  opened 
her  eyes  and  looked  round  in  surprise. 

"  My  dear  child,  is  this  really  you  ?  How  is  it  possible 
you  are  dressed  already  ?  " 

Miss  Shirley  pulled  out  a  watch  about  the  size  of  a  penny- 
piece,  set  with  a  blazing  circlet  of  diamonds,  and  consulted 
it  with  precision. 

"  I  was  dressed  just  twenty  minutes  ago,  grandmamma  !  " 


It 


184        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CUFFK. 

*'  What  .in  absurd  toilet  you  must  have  made,  then  I 
Come  in  and  let  me  look  at  you  1  " 

Vivia  came  in  and  made  a  respectful  little  housemaid's 
courtsey. 

"Oh,  my  ladyl  don't  scold,  if  you  please  I  I  was  dying 
to  see  the  rooms ;  and  how  could  I  think  of  my  toilet  the 
very  first  hour  I  got  home  ? " 

•'  Well,  you  are  tolerable,"  said  Lady  Agnes,  leaning  over 
with  a  critical  eye,  **  but  too  plain,  child ;  simplicity  is  very 
nice  in  young  girls,  but  some  ornament — a  flower,  a  few 
pearls,  everything  in  keeping,  remember."  (She  herself  was 
blazing  in  jewels.)  *'  And  you  have  rather  too  much  of  a 
milkmaid  flush  on  your  cheeks ;  but  still  you  are  very  well. 
V  Where  did  you  say  you  had  been  ?  " 

"  To  see  the  oak  rooms  in  the  Agnes  Tower.  They  are 
lovely,  grandmamma,  especially  that  dear,  delightful  oratory, 

which  is  prettier  even  than "     Vivia  paused  suddenly, 

and  Lady  Agnes,  with  a  little,  malicious  laugh,  finished  the 
sentence : 

"  Then  the  famous  oratoire  in  the  Chateau  St.  Hilary, 
which  you  have  described  so  often,  and  of  which  this  is  a 
copy.  Well,  my  dear,  as  you  declined  being  mistress  of 
that,  I  determined  you  should  possess  a  prettier  one ;  and 
so  you  really  like  it  ?  " 

"  Of  couiise  ;  who  could  do  otherwise  !  liut,  grandmamma, 
1  don't  understand  why  I'm  to  use  two  dressing-  rooms,  and 
what  all  those  shocking  swords  and  pistols  are  for  1  " 

"  Dear  child  1 "  said  Lady  Agnes,  in  German,  that 
Mademoiselle  Hoitense,  the  maid,  might  not  understand, 
*'  they  are  not  thine  alone,  but  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cliff e's  !  The 
amber  dressing-room  and  study  are  your  husband's  1  " 

**  Oh  1  "  said  Vivia,  laughing  and  blushing. 

*'  After  your  bridal  tour,  you  know,  they  will  be  occupied 
— not  until  then  ;  and  afterward,  when  you  visit  the  Castle. 
And  now,  Victoria,  there's  something  else  I  want  to  speak 
to  you  about — the  announcement  of  your  engagement.  As 
I  ncceded  to  your  silly  entreaties  in  town,  and  did  not  an- 
nounce it  there,  I  think  it  is  only  proper  that  our  guests 
should  be  informed  immediately.  As  the  marriage  is  to  take 
place  itself  within  a  fortnight,  the  notice  even  now  will  be 
absurdly  short.'' 


BACK  AGAIN. 


185 


je 

\y 


J  > 


"  Oh,  grandmamma — no !  don't  publish  it  yet,  not  on  any 
account  I " 

"Victoria,  I'm  surprised  at  you  I  I  have  no  patience 
with  you?  Now  why,  for  Heaven's  sake,  might  not  the 
whole  world  know  it?" 

"Grandmamma,  you  know  very  well.  I  told  you  in  town, 
why.  I  should  feel  so  ashamed  and  so  silly  !  and  I  am  sure 
I  should  not  be  able  to  speak  a  word  to  monsieur,  my  cousin, 
again,  until  after  the  ceremony.  And  then,  to  think  that 
every  one  in  Cliftonlea,  and  in  Lower  Cliflfe,  and  in  Lisle- 
ham,  and  all  round  the  country  will  talk  about  it,  and  my 
name  will  be  bandied  on  every  lip,  high  and  low ;  and  how 
the  trousseau,  and  settlements,  and  parure  will  be  discussed  1 
and  how  the  sentimental  people  will  wonder  if  it  was  a  love- 
match  or  a  7H(iriagt'  de  convenavce ;  and  how  they  will  con- 
jecture over  there  in  the  town  what  sort  of  an  appetite  I  had 
the  day  before,  and  how  many  tears  I  will  shed  on  being  led 
to  the  altar.  And  then  those  people  here — how,  for  the  next 
two  or  three  weeks,  it  will  be  the  sole  subject  of  discus- 
sion ;  how  they  will  shower  conscious  smiles  and  glances 
at  me,  whenever  I  approach,  and  make  our  united  names 
their  theme  over  the  billiard  and  card  tables ;  and  tell  each 
other  what  an  excellent  match  it  is ;  and  move  away,  and 
leave  us  alone,  if  we  chance  by  accident  to  come  together 
among  the  rest ;  and  I  will  be  congratulated,  and  kissed, 
and  talked  at.     Oh,  dreadful  1     I  should  never  survive  it !  " 

All  this  liad  been  poured  forth  with  such  excited  vehe- 
mence, that  Lady  Agnes  opened  her  light  blue  e)  es  in  sur- 
prise, and  Mademoiselle  Hortense,  without  understanding  a 
word,  stared  and  pricked  up  her  ears.  As  she  stopped, 
with  very  red  cheeks,  and  very  bright  eyes,  Lady  Agnes 
broke  out,  with  energy  : 

"  Victoria,  you  are  nothing  but  a  little  fool !  " 

"  Yes,  grandmamma  ;  but  p-i>please  don't  tell  1  " 

"  Now,  grant  mc  patience !  Was  there  ever  anything 
heard  like  this  ?  Pray  tell  me,  me.  Miss  Shirley,  if  you  are 
ashamed  of  your  coming  wedding  ?  " 

"  Oh,  grandmamma  I  " 

"  Is  it  ever  to  be  announced  at  all,  or  are  our  guests  to 
know  nothing  of  it  until  the  wedding  morning — tell  me  that  ? '' 
Oh,  not  so  bad  as  that  1     Won't  next  week  do  ? " 


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Photographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  i^SSO 

(716)S72-4S03 


•^^ 


186       THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTILE  CWFFE. 


1 


"  This  week  will  do  better  I  Are  you  not  aware  that 
Leicester  leaves  to-morrow  for  London,  to  arrange  about 
the  settlements,  and  will  not  return  within  three  or  four  days 
of  the  day  ? " 

"  Yes,  grandmamma ;  and  I  don't  want  you  to  say  any- 
thing about  it  until  he  comes  back." 

"  Victoria,  tell  me — do  you  care  at  all  for  your  future 
husband  ?  " 

Victoria  wilted  suddenly  down. 

"I — I  think  so,  grandmmama." 

"  I — I  think  so,  grandmmama  I  "  said  her  ladyship,  mimick- 
ing her  tone.  "  Oh,  was  there  ever  such  another  simpleton 
on  the  face  of  the  earth  ?  Victoria,  I  am  ashamed  of  you  I 
Where  are  you  going  now  ?  " 

"  To  the  Queen's  Room.  Don't  be  angry,  grandmamma. 
I  shall  do  everything  you  tell  me  in  all  other  ways  and  all 
other  matters;  but,  please,  like  a  dear  good  grandmmma, 
let  me  have  mine  in  this  I  " 

It  was  not  in  human  nature  to  resist  that  sweet  coaxing 
tone,  nor  that  smile,  half  gay,  half  deprecating,  nor  yet  the 
kiss  with  which  the  grand  lady's  lips  were  bribed  and  sealed. 
Lady  Agnes  pushed  her  away,  half  smiling,  half  petulant. 

"  You're  all  the  same  as  a  great  baby,  Victoria,  and  alto- 
gether spoiled  by  that  other  great  baby — your  papa  1  Go 
away  1  " 

Laughing  Victoria  went,  and  singing  to  herself  a  merry 
chansonette,  danced  along  the  old  halls  to  the  Queen's 
Room  in  the  Queen's  Tower.  In  this  particular  room,  said 
the  traditions  of  the  house,  Queen  Elizabeth  had  slept ;  and, 
from  that  memorable  time,  everything  had  remained  precisely 
as  the  great  Queen  had  left  it.  It  had  been  the  awe  and 
admiration  of  Vivia's  childhood — this  room — and  it  seemed 
filled  with  ghostly  rustling  now  as  she  entered,  as  if  good 
Queen  Bess's  one  silk  dress  still  rattled  stiffly  against  the 
moulded  wainscoting.  It  was  a  dismally-old  apartment,  very 
long,  and  very  low  ceilinged,  with  great  oaken  beams  cross- 
ing it  transversely,  and  quartered  in  the  center  in  the  same 
wood,  with  the  arms  of  Cliffe  surmounted  by  the  bloody 
hand.  A  huge  bed,  in  which  the  Seven  Sleepers  might  have 
reposed,  with  lots  of  room  to  kick  about  in,  stood  in  the 
center  of  the  dusty  oak  floor,  and  the  daylight  came  dimly 


I 


^  ^ 


1 


BACK  AGAIN. 


187 


Ithat 
)out 
iays 

my- 
cure 


through  two  narrow,  high  windows,  with  minute  diamond 
panes  set  in  leaden  casements,  all  overrun  with  ivy.  There 
was  a  black  gulf  of  a  fireplace,  wherein  yule  logs  had  blazed 
a  Christmas  tune ;  and  there  was  a  huge  granite  mantelpiece, 
with  a  little  ledge  ever  so  far  up.  There  must  have  been 
giants  in  the  day  it  was  used,  and  Vivia  kissed  the  cold  gray 
stone,  and  read  the  pious  legend  carved  on  it  in  quaint 
letters :  "  Mater  Dei,  memento  me  ! '  (Dear  reader,  if  you've 
never  loved  wood  or  stone,  you  cannot  understand  Vivia.) 
All  sorts  of  grotesque  heads  were  carved  on  the  oak  panels — 
sylphs  and  satyrs,  gods  and  goddesses  heavenly  and  infernal ; 
and  opposite  each  other,  one  of  the  martyred  abbesses  and 
Queen  Elizabeth.  This  last  was  a  sliding  panel  opening 
with  a  secret  spring,  and  leading  by  a  subterraneous  passage 
out  into  the  park — a  secret  passage  by  which  many  a  crime 
had  been  concealed  in  days  gone  by,  and  which  Vivia  knew 
well,  and  had  often  passed  through  in  her  childhood.  She 
had  been  walking  round  the  room  examining  the  carvings, 
and  looking  at  her  own  pretty  self  in  a  dusty  old  mirror, 
before  which  the  royal  tigress  of  England  had  once  stood 
combing  out  her  red  mane,  when  she  was  interrupted  in  a 
startling  and  mysterious  way  enough. 

"  Victoria  1 "  . 

Vivia  started  and  looked  round.  The  voice,  soft  and  low, 
was  close  beside  her — came  actually  from  the  carved  lips  of 
the  nun  in  the  panel. 

"Victoria  I"  , 

Again  from  the  lips  of  wood  came  the  name  clear  and 
sweet.  She  started  back  and  gazed  with  blanched  cheeks 
and  dilating  eyes  on  the  beautiful  dust-stained  face.  Once 
more  came  the  voice,  vibrating  clear  and  distinct  through- 
out the  room. 

"  Victoria  Shirley,  the  hour  of  your  downfall  is  at  hand  I 
For  six  years  you  have  walked  your  way  with  a  ring  and  a 
clatter  over  the  heads  of  those  whose  handmaid  you  were 
born  to  be ;  but  the  hour  comes  when  might  shall  succumb 
to  right,  anu  you  shall  be  thrust  out  into  the  slime  from 
which  you  have  arisen  1  Heiress  of  Castle  Cliffe,  look  to 
yourself,  and  remember  that  the  last  shall  be  first,  and  the 
first  shall  be  last  I  " 

The  faint,  low  voice  took  a  stern  and  menacing  tone  at 


"m 


i 


188        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CUFFE. 

the  close,  and  then  died  away  in  impressive  silence.  Vivia 
had  been  standing  breathless,  and  spell-bound,  and  terror- 
struck,  with  her  eyes  on  the  carved  nun's  face  over  the  door. 
When  it  ceased  the  spell  was  broken,  and  Vivia  turned  in 
horror  to  fly.  Not  for  worlds  would  she  have  gone  near  it 
to  pass  through  the  door ;  so  she  touched  the  spring  in  the 
secret  panel,  and  passed  out  into  the  opening  beyond.  As 
it  closed,  shutting  out  the  last  ray  of  light  and  leaving  her  in 
utter  darkness,  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  dark  figure  disap- 
pearing before  her  in  the  gloom,  and  she  flew  down  along 
the  spiral  staircase — how,  she  scarcely  ever  afterward  knew. 
At  the  foot  was  a  long  arched  stone  passage,  nearly  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  in  extent,  ending  in  a  wilderness  of  ivy  and 
juniper,  close  beside  one  of  the  laurel  walks.  Through  it 
she  flew,  pale  and  breathless,  pausing  not  until  she  found 
herself  out  in  sunshine,  with  the  birds  singing  in  the  branches 
overhead,  and  the  pure  breezes  sweeping  up  cool  and  sweet 
from  the  sea.  Something  else  was  there  to  reassure  her 
also — a  figure  walking  up  and  down  the  laurel  walk,  and 
smoking  furiously.  It  turned  the  instant  after  she  emerged 
from  the  tangled  wilderness  of  ivy,  and,  seeing  her,  took  the 
cigar  between  his  finger  and  thumb,  and  stared  with  all  his 
might.  Vivia's  courage  and  presence  of  mind  came  back 
all  at  once. 

•*  Does  monsieur  think  I  have  dropped  from  the  skies  ? " 
she  asked,  coquettishly,  for  being  more  than  half  French, 
Mademoiselle  Genevieve  took  to  coquetry  as  naturally  as  a 
wasp  takes  to  stinging. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  said  Leicester  Cliffe,  flinging  away  his 
cigar,  and  coming  up,  "  I  might  very  easily  be  pardoned  for 
mistaking  you  for  an  angel,  but,  in  the  present  instance,  I 
merely  think  you  are  a  witch  !  Two  seconds  ago  I  was  all 
alone ;  no  one  was  visible  in  any  dir.ection  but  myself.  At 
the  end  of  these  two  seconds  I  turn  round,  and  lo !  there 
stands  before  me  a  shining  vision  in  gold  and  azure,  like 
the  queen  of  the  fairies  in  a  moonlit  ring.  Will  you  vanish 
if  I  come  any  nearer  ?  " 

"  You  may  come  and  see  ?  " 

He  needed  no  second  bidding.  And  as  he  stood  before 
her,  looking  at  her  in  astonishment,  he  saw  how  pale  she 
was,  and  the  excited  gleam  in  her  serene  blue  eyes. 


BACK  AGAIN. 


ivia 
fror- 
|oor. 
in 
ir  it 
the 
As 
|r  in 
5ap- 
mg 


y 


189 


"  What  has  happened  ?  Has  anything  frightened  you  ? 
Why  are  you  looking  so  pale  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  shivered,  drew  closer  to  him  involuntarily,  and  glanced 
behind  her  with  a  startled  face. 

"  Vivia,  what  is  it  ?     Something  has  gone  wrong ! '' 

"  Yes  ;  come  away  from  here,  and  I  will  tell  you." 

He  drew  her  hand  within  his  arm,  and  turned  down  the 
laurel  walk.  It  ended  in  a  long  avenue  leading  past  the  old 
ruin ;  and,  as  they  eiitered,  he  asked  again  : 

"  Well,  Vivia,  what  has  gone  wrong,  and  how  came  you 
to  appear  there  so  suddenly  and  mysteriously  ? " 

"  There  is  nothing  mysterious  about  my  getting  there. 
You  know  the  subterraneous  passage  leading  from  the 
Queen's  Tower  to  the  park.-*  I  merely  came  through 
that." 

"  A  pleasant  notion  !  to  come  through  that  dark  and 
rheumatic  old  vault,  when  you  could  have  stepped  out 
through  the  front-door  with  double  the  ease  and  convenience  1 
Did  you  see  the  ghost  of  Queen  Elizabeth  on  the  way  ?  " 

"  No,  monsieur ;  but  if  you  laugh  at  me,  I  shall  not  say 
another  word.     The  mysterious  part  is  to  come." 

"  Oh,  there  is  a  mystery,  then — that's  refreshing !  Let 
me  hear  it  1  " 

"  You  are  laughing  at  me !  " 

"By  no  means  I  Pray  don't  keep  me  in  this  torturing 
suspense  I  ^' 

"  Monsieur,  I  had  been  through  the  house  looking  at  the 
improvements,  and  1  came  to  the  Queen's  Room,  to  see  if 
they  had  been  sacrilegious  enough  to  alter  that.  In  one  of 
the  panels  there  is  carved  the  head  of  a  nun,  the  abbess 
who " 

"  Oh,  I  know  perfectly !  Lady  Edith  Cliffe,  who  was 
murdered  there  in  the  old  monastery — what  else  ?  " 

"  Monsieur,  there  was  a  voice — it  seemed  to  come  from 
that  head — and  it  said  things  it  chills  my  blood  to  think  of  1 
I  think  there  was  no  one  else  in  the  whole  tower  but  myself ; 
I  am  sure  there  was  no  one  else  in  the  room  ;  and  yet,  there 
was  that  voice,  which  seemed  to  come  from  the  carved  head  t 
Don't  laugh  at  me,  monsieur;  I  am  telling  the  whole 
truth!"  - 

Monsieur  was  not  disposed  to  laugh — not  at  all.     He  was 


to 


be 


•I  was 


190        THK  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CI.IFFE. 

thinking  of  the  Nun's  Grave,  and  of  the  warning  voice  so 
mysterious  and  solemn.  This  voice  was  possibly  the  same. 
Vivia  looked  up  with  her  earnest  eyes. 

'*  What  does  monsieur  think  of  this  ?  " 

"  That  there   is  not  the  least  reason  in  the  world 
afraid.     Mademoiselle,  I,  too,  have  heard  that  voice  1 

"  You  1  " 

"  Even  so  !  " 

"  Where  ? " 

"  At  the  Nun's  Grave  1  " 

"  Oh,  Monsieur,   I,  too,  heard  it  there  long  ago  1 
a  child  then,  and  I  was  there  alone  with  Barbara  Black  I  " 

'*  I,  too,  was  alone  with  Barbara  Black !  "  thought  Leices- 
ter, but  he  only  said :  "  Do  not  distress  yourself,  Miss 
Shirley — believe  me  that  mysterious  voice  is  not  super- 
natural 1  " 

"  What,  then,  is  it  ?  " 

«'  That  I  do  not  altogether  know  !  I  have  a  suspicion : 
if  it  prove  a  certainty,  you  will  yet  be  able  to  laugh  over  to- 
day's terror.  Meantime,  I  have  something  else  to  speak  t^ 
you  about,  as  I  believe  this  is  the  only  time  since  I  have 
had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you,  that  we  have  ever  been  for 
five  minutes  utterly  and  completely  alone  together  1  " 

Vivia  turned  pale,  and  drawing  her  hand  suddenly  from 
his  arm,  stooped  to  gather  the  daisies  growing  under  their 
feet.  He  looked  at  her  with  a  smile  that  had  a  little  of  sar- 
casm in  it. 

"  Are  you  aware.  Miss  Shirley,  we  are  to  be  married  in  a 
fortnight  ? " 

Vivia,  with  a  pale  face  and  startled  eyes,  looked  round 
her  for  a  moment,  as  if  meditating  flight ;  and  Leicester, 
with  an  inward  laugh  at  her  evident  dread  of  a  love-scene, 
took  her  hand  and  held  it  firmly. 

"  Are  you  sure  you  know  we  are  to  be  married,  Vivia  ?  " 

"  Yes,  monsieur  1  "  very  faintly. 

"  You  know,  too,  that  I  leave  to-morrow  for  London,  to 
arrange  the  final  settlements,  and  will  not  return  till  within 
a  day  or  two  before  the  wedding."     . 

"  Yes,  monsieur  !  " 

"  And  though  I  never  had  an  opportunity  of  telling  you 
SO}  you  know,  of  course,  I  love  you  I  " 


m. 


BACK  AGAIN. 


191 


voice  so 
the  same. 


Hd  to  be 
lei  " 


I  was 

ack  1  " 

t  Leices- 
-if,  Miss 
t    super- 


ispicion  ; 
over  to- 
speak  t^ 
e  I  have 
Jeen  for 

ly  from 
er  their 
-  of  sar- 

ed  in  a 

round 
icester, 
-scene, 

ia  ?  " 

on,  to 
within 


you 


-^^\ 


"  Grandmamma  told  me  so,  monsieur  I  " 

Leicester  smiled  outright  at  this  ;  but  as  she  was  not 
looking,  it  did  not  matter.  Without  lifting  her  eyes,  she 
tried  to  release  her  hand. 

"  Please  to  let  me  go,  Monsieur  Cliff e." 

"  You'll  run  away  if  I  do." 

*'  No ;  but  it  is  time  we  were  returning  to  the  house — the 
dinner-bell  will  ring  diiectly." 

"  One  moment  only  1  As  we  are  to  be  married  so  soon, 
it  strikes  me  I  should  like  to  know  whether  or  not  you  care 
for  me."  ^ 

With  her  released  hand  Vivia  was  tearing  mercilessly  to 
pieces  the  daisies  she  had  pulled.  She  was  silent  so  long, 
with  face  averted,  that  he  repeated  the  question : 

"  Mademoiselle  does  not  answer." 

"  If  I  do  not  answer,  monsieur,"  she  said,  with  infinite 
composure,  looking  straight  before  her,  "  it  is  because  I  was 
thinking  how  to  say  what  I  feel  on  the  subject.  If  I  marry 
you,  I  shall  love  you,  depend  on  that.  Your  honor,  or  as 
much  of  it  as  will  be  in  my  keeping,  shall  be  dearer  to  me 
than  my  own  life,  and  your  happiness  will  be  the  most 
sacred  thing  to  me  on  earth.  But  as  for  love,  such  as  I 
have  read  of  and  heard  of  from  other  girls,  I  know  nothing 
of  it,  and  if  you  ask  me  for  passion,  I  have  it  not  to  give  ! 
I  love  my  papa  best  of  all  on  earth ;  next  to  him,  and  in  a 

different  way,  I  respect  and "  a  little  tremor  of  the  v6ice ; 

"  and  love  you  1  And,  monsieur,  I  shall  be  your  true  and 
faithful  wife  until  death  !  " 

In  speaking,  they  had  drawn  near  to  the  Nun's  Grave 
without  noticing  it.  They  were  standing  on  its  verge  now, 
and  one  of  them  remembered  how  he  had  stood  there  last, 
and  how  different  a  love  had  been  given  him  then.  Much 
as  he  admired  the  heiress  of  Castle  Cliffe,  noble  and  high- 
minded,  unworthy  as  he  felt  to  touch  the  hem  of  her  dress, 
he  knew  that  Barbara  was  a  thousand  times  more  to  his 
taste.  Miss  Shirley  was  an  angel,  and  he  was  a  great  deal 
too  much  of  the  earth,  earthy,  not  to  prefer  the  dark,  pas- 
sionate daughter  of  his  own  world.  He  did  not  want  to 
marry  an  angel.  Had  Miss  Shirley  been  a  fisherman's 
daughter,  he  would  as  soon  have  thought  of  falling  in  love 
v/ith  a  drift  of  sea-foam  as  she.     But  it  was  too  late  for  all 


i 


i 


192       THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  ClylFFE. 

such  thoughts  now,  and  he  suppressed  a  sigh,  and  looked 
down  at  the  fallen  tree.  He  started  to  see  the  carved  ini- 
tials staring  him  full  in  the  face,  like  reproachful  ghosts, 
and  the  guilty  blood  came  crimson  to  his  brow.  Vivia  saw 
them,  too,  and  was  leaning  on  the  grass,  looking  at  them 
curiously. 

"  Do  look  at  this,  monsieur !  B.  B.  and  L.  S.  C.  Why, 
those  last  are  your  initials ;  did  you  carve  them  ?  "  , 

"  I  think  so — yes  1  "  he  said,  carelessly. 

"  And  whose  are  the  others  ?  "  , 

Leicester  Cliffe  did  not  like  the  idea  of  wilfully  telling  a 
lie,  but  it  would  never  do  to  say  "  Barbara  Black ; "  so  he 
answered,  with  the  guilty  color  high  in  his  face  : 

"  I  don't  know  1  There  is  the  five  minutes  bell ;  had  we 
not  better  return  to  the  house  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  so ;  what  will  grandmamma  say  ?  I  have 
been  fully  an  hour  rambling  about  the  place,  and  I  love 
every  tree  and  stone  in  it,  even  that  frightful,  charming  and 
romantic  Queen's  Room.  It  is  like  paradise,  this 'place — is 
it  not,  monsieur  ? " 

"  Any  place  would  be  like  paradise  to  me  where  you  were, 
Vivia  ? " 

She  laughed  gayly,  and  they  walked  away  under  the  elms, 
and  disappeared.  And  neither  dreamed  of  the  unseen 
listener  who  had  heard  every  word. 


ACCEPTED. 


193 


CHAPTER   XX. 


ACCEPTED. 


Away  beyond  the  Nun's  Grave  the  green  lanes  and  wind- 
ing avenues  of  Cliff e  Park  lost  themselves  in  a  dry  arid 
marsh,  where  tall,  blue  rockets  and  flame-colored  flowers 
danced  crazy  fandangoes  in  the  wind,  where  sheep  and  cattle 
grazed  in  the  rank  grass,  and  where  wild  strawberries  were 
sown  like  scarlet  stars,  on  the  golden  June  evening,  when 
the  betrothed  lovers  stood  talking  by  the  fallen  elm.  At 
the  head  of  the  grave  was  a  wild  jungle  of  tall  fern,  and 
juniper,  and  reeds,  shaded  by  thick  elms  and  beeches — a 
lonely  spot,  in  whose  greenish  black  gloom  many  a  dark 
deed  might  be  committed,  and  no  one  the  wiser — a  jJtace 
as  gloomy  and  silent,  and  lonely,  as  the  heart  of  a  primeval 
forest.  But  it  was  not  deserted  now  :  crouching  among  the 
fern  and  reedy  blossoms  was  a  figure  in  white — a  slender, 
girlish  figure,  with  crimson  buds  wreathed  in  the  bands  of 
her  shining  dark  hair — a  figure  that  on  coming  toward  the 
Nun's  Grave,  had  discovered  two  others  approaching  it 
from  an  opposite  direction,  and  had  shrunk  down  here  out 
of  sight.  Unseen  and  unheard,  she  had  listened  to  the 
whole  conversation  ;  and  it  was  well  neither  saw  the  ter- 
rible eyes  gleaming  upon  them  from  the  green  vines,  or  they 
scarcely  would  have  walked  back  to  the  dinner-table  as  com- 
posedly and  as  happily  as  they  did.  She  had  started  at 
first,  flushing  redder  than  the  roses  in  her  hair  ;  but  this 
had  passed  away  as  quickly  as  it  cime  ;  and  as  she  half- 
sat,  half-knelt,  and  listened,  she  seemed  slowly  petrifying, 
turning  from  stone  to  ice.  Long  after  they  went  away  she 
knelt  there,  like  something  carved  in  marble,  her  dress  and 
face  all  one  color  ;  her  eyes  looking  straight  before  her 
with  a  dull,  glazed,  vacant  stare.  So  long  she  knelt,  that 
the  red  lances  of  sunset  piercing  the  shifting  green  gloom 
had  died  out  one  by  one,  and  the   evening   wind  sighing 


•*; 


i 


194        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CLIFFE. 

from  the  sea  stirred  restlessly  in  the  branches  of  the  elms 
overhead.  Then  she  arose,  with  a  face  that  no  one  had 
ever  seen  Barbara  Black  wear  before.  They  had  seen  her 
in  sorrow,  in  anger,  in  pride,  in  joy ;  but  never  with  a  face 
like  that,  so  set,  so  stone-like,  so  rigidly  calm.  She  might 
have  been  a  galvanized  corpse  ;  only  no  corpse  ever  had 
the  eyes  wherein  the  light  of  life  burned  with  so  fierce  and 
steady  a  glare.  She  had  not  gone  to  Cliftonlea  that  day  to 
see  the  triumphal  procession  enter  ;  always  jealously  proud, 
she  was  more  exclusively  so  now  than  ever,  for  the  sake  of 
another.  Oh,  no  ;  it  would  never  do  for  the  future  bride  of 
Leicester  Cliffe  to  be  splashed  with  the  mud  of  his  chariot 
wheels,  like  the  rest  of  the  common  herd  ;  so,  smiling  in 
heart  she  had  dressed  herself  in  the  flowing  white  robes 
of  the  May  Queen,  in  which  he  had  seen  her  first,  and  gone 
forth  like  a  bride  to  meet  him. 

Of  course  he  had  been  thinking  of  her  all  day,  and  losing 
his  sleep  thinking  of  her  all  night,  and  fretting  himself  into 
a  fever  ever  since  he  went  away,  to  get  back  to  love  and 
her — men  always  do  in  such  cases  !  Of  course,  the  first 
visit  of  so  ardent  a  lover  would  be  to  the  spot  made  sacred 
by  their  plighted  vows  ;  and  she  would  be  there,  beautiful 
and  radiant  in  her  bridal  robes,  and  be  the  first  to  greet 
him  home  !  Young  ladies  in  love  are  invariably  fools,  and 
they  generally  get  a  fool's  reward.  Barbara  was  no  ex- 
ception ;  and  verily  she  had  her  reward.  As  she  rose  up 
and  turned  away,  she  tottered,  and  leaned  for  a  moment 
against  a  tree,  with  both  hands  clasped  hard  over  her  heart. 
.  "  Oh,  fool  I  fool !  "  she  cried  out,  in  bitter  scorn  of  her- 
self. "  Poor,  pitiful  fool  I  to  think  that  this  heart  should 
quail  for  one  instant,  though  trodden  under  the  feet  of  such 
a  traitor  and  dastard  as. that  1  " 

There  was  a  strong  net-work  of  tall  rank  vines  in  her 
path,  but  she  brushed  them  aside  like  a  cobweb,  and  went 
on  over  the  arid  marsh  on  her  way  to  the  gates.  Bubbling 
from  a  rock  very  near  thejn,  and  sparkling  clear  and  bright 
beneath  the  shadow  of  the  overhanging  fern,  was  a  crystal 
spring,  with  a  sea-nymph  watching  over  it,  and  a  beautiful 
little  drinking  cup,  made  from  a  sea  shell,  hanging  from  the 
stone  girdle  round  its  waist.  "  v. 

Barbara   filled  the  cup,  and  was  -  raising  it  to    her  lips, 


ACCEPTED. 


195 


when  she  stopped.  For  the  carved  face  of  the  goddess  was 
that  of  Victoria  Shirley,  and  carved  on  the  rose-tinted  shell 
were  the  words :  " 

"  Victoria  Regia." 

Barbara  drew  her  white  lips  off  her  glistening  teeth  with 
a  low,  derisive  laugh,  and  dashed  the  shell  so  furiously 
against  the  statue  that  it  shivered  on  her  stone  bosom  into 
a  thousand  fragments. 

"  Oh,  if  that  pretty,  rosy,  smiling  face  were  only  here, 
how  I  could  beat  out  every  trace  of  its  wax-doll  beauty,  and 
send  it  back,  hideous  and  lacerated,  for  him  to  kiss  I  "  she 
said,  looking  at  the  unmoved  smile  on  the  stone  face,  with 
the  eyes  of  a  tigress.  "  Pretty  little  devil  1  If  that  were 
she  in  reality,  instead  of  her  stone  image,  how  I  could 
throttle  her  as  she  stands  1  Why,  I  would  rather  drink 
poison  than  anything  on  which  she  had  looked  1  sooner  ^ 
touch  my  lips  to  red-hot  iron  than  to  anything  bearing  her 
name  !  " 

She  literally  hissed  the  words  out  through  her  set  teeth, 
without  raising  her  voice  ;  and  casting  one  parting  look 
with  the  same  wolfish  eyes  on  the  smiling  block  of  stone, 
she  hurried  on  through  the  park-gates,  and  into  the  cottage, 
just  as  the  last  little  pink  cloud  of  sunset  was  dipping  and 
fading  behind  the  distant  hills. 

The  cottage  looked  disorderly  as  usual,  with  piles  of  nets 
and  oars,  and  filsh-baskets  and  oilcloth  garments  scattered 
in  the  corners,  and  chairs  and  tables  at  sixes  and  sevens,  and 
perfumed  with  an  ancient  and  fish-like  smell.  A  wood-fire 
burned  on  the  hearth,  and  the  green  wood  did  not  mend 
matters  by  vomiting  puffs  of  smoke,  and  the  kettle  on  the 
crane  seemed  in  a  fair  way  to  boil  some  time  before  mid- 
night. 

In  a  chair  in  the  chimney-corner,  smoking  serenely,  sat 
Mr.  Peter  Black,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  his  hat  on  his 
head,  and  his  eyes  on  the  fire  ;  and  Barbara,  entering,  a 
spotless  and  shining  vision,  made  him  look  up.  Mr.  Black 
did  more  than  look  up — he  stared  with  his  eyes  open  to  the 
widest  possible  extent. 

"  Good  Lord  1 "  said  Mr.  Black,  still  staring  in  the  ut- 
most consternation,  "  whatever  is  the  matter  with  the  girl  ?  '* 

Barbara  took  a  long  drink  of  water,  and  then  coming  over, 


■ 


t 


196        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CUFFE. 

rested  her  arm  on  the  mantel,  and  faced  him  with  perfect 
composure. 

"  What  is  it,  father  ?  " 

"  What  tlie  foul  fiend  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  You  look 
as  though  you  had  been  dead  a  week." 

"  Am  I  pale  ?  " 

"  Pale  ?  It's  quite  horrible,  I  tell  you.  Have  you  seen  a 
ghost  ? " 

"Yes,  father." 

Mr.  Black's  jaw  dropped  so  suddenly  at  this  announce- 
ment, and  his  eyes  opened  so  wide,  that  there  seemed  strong 
danger  of  their  ever  being  able  to  regain  their  natural  posi- 
tion again. 

"  What— what's  that  you  said  ?  " 

"  That  I  have  seen  a  ghost,  father — the  ghost  of  truth  and 
honor  forever  dead  1  " 

Before  Mr.  Black  could  frame  an  answer  to  this  speech, 
•which  was  to  him  Greek  or  thereabouts,  the  door  opened 
and  old  Judith,  attired  in  promenade  costume — that  is,  a 
faded  scarlet  cloak,  with  a  hood  thrown  over  her  head — 
entered.  Now,  Judith's  promenading  three  yards  beyond 
her  own  threshold  was  so  very  unusual  and  striking  a  circum- 
stance, that  Barbara  turned  to  look  at  her,  and  Mr.  Black 
took  the  pipe  from  his  lips,  and  stared,  if  possible,  harder 
than  ever. 

"  Why,  grandmother,"  said  Barbara,  "  where  have  you 
been  ? " 

The  old  woman  threw  back  the  hood  of  her  cloak,  and 
showed  an  animated  and  sprightly  countenance  as  she  drew 
up  her  chair  and  held  out  her  hands,  with  a  shiver,  to  the 
blaze. 

"  Ah  1 "  said  Mr.  Black,  still  holding  his  pipe,  and  still 
staring,  "  that's  just  what  I  should  like  to  know.  Where 
have  you  been  ?  " 

"  Up  to  Cliftonlea,  to  be  sure,"  said  Judith,  with  a  low 
dry,  cackling  laugh,  and  a  sly  look  out  of  her  eyes,  first  at 
her  granddaughter  and  then  at  her  son.  "  Everybody  went, 
and  why  couldn't  I  go  among  the  rest  ?  " 

Mr.  Black  gave  vent  to  his  suppressed  feelings  by  a 
deeply  bass  oath,  and  Barbara  stood  looking  at  her  steadily 
out  of  her  great  dark  eyes.  - 


ACCEPTED. 


197 


i 


*  Old  Judith  cackled  again  and  rubbed  her  hands.  •      •  • 

"  It  was  a  fine  sight  I  a  grand  sight  I  a  brave  sight  1 — 
finer  than  anything  even  at  the  theater  1  There  were 
arches  with  her  name  on  'em ;  and  flags  a-flying  ;  and 
flowers  all  along  the  road  for  her  wheels  to  go  over ; 
and  there  were  four  shining  horses  all  covered  with 
silver,  holding  up  their  heads  as  if  they  were  proud  of 
her,  and  walking  on  the  flowers  as  if  they  scorned  them 
and  the  common-folks  who  threw  them  ;  and  there  was  she, 
among  all  the  grand  ladies  and  gentlemen,  with  her  silk 
dress  rustling,  and  her  eyes  like  blue  stars,  and  her  cheeks 
like  pink  velvet,  and  her  smile  like — ah,  like  an  angel  I — 
and  she  a-flinging  of  handfuls  of  silver  among  the  charity- 
children,  as  if  it  was  dirt,  and  she  despised  it  I  Ah  I  she  is 
a  great  lady — a  great  lady — a  great  lady  1 " 

Old  Judith  rubbed  her  hands  so  hard  that  there  seemed 
some  danger  of  her  flaying  them,  and  looked  alternately  at 
her  son  and  granddaughter,  with  a  glance  of  such  mingled 
shyness,  cunning,  exultation,  that  the  gentleman  got  exas- 
perated, 

"  What  in  blazes  1 "  inquired  Mr.  Black,  putting  it  tem- 
perately, "  is  the  blessed  old  scarecrow  a-talking  of  ?  She 
can't  have  been  drinking,  can  she  ?  "  Though  the  adjective 
Mr.  Black  used  was  not  exactly  "  blessed,"  and  though  the 
look  with  which  he  favored  his  tender  parent  was  not  the 
blandest,  yet  old  Judith  cackled  her  shrill  laugh  again,  and 
diving  one  skinny  arm  into  the  greasy  depths  of  a  pocket 
by  her  side,  fished  up  a  handful  of  silver  coins. 

"  Look  at  them  I  "  cried  the  old  lady,  thrusting  them  very 
near  Mr.  Black's  nose,  with  an  exultant  gleam  in  her  green- 
ish black  eyes.  "  Look  at  them  I  She  saw  me  Sitting  by 
the  roadside,  and  she  threw  them  to  me  as  she  rode  past,  and 
asked  for  Barbara.  Stop — keep  off — it's  mine  I  give  me 
my  money,  Barbara !  " 

Across  Barbara's  white  face  there  had  shot  a  sudden 
crimson  streak,  and  in  each  of  Barbara's  eyes  there  had 
leaped  a  demon.  She  had  clutched  the  skinny  arm  of  the 
old  woman  in  a  hand  like  iron,  and  wrenched  the  money 
from  her  avaricious  clutch,  and  dashed  it  with  all  her 
might  through  the  window,  smashing  the  glass  as  it  went. 
Then,  without  a  word  she  resumed  her  place  at  the  mantel ; 


^. 


193        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CI.IFFE.     : 

but  father  and  grandmother  sprung  to  their  feet,  the  one 
with  a  savage  oath,  the  other  with  a  shrill  and  angry 
scream, 

"  What's  all  this  for  ? "  demanded  Mr.  Black,  looking 
fiercely  at  his  unmovable  daughter.  "  What  the  devil  has 
got  into  the  girl  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  quiet  eye. 

"  You've  said  it,  father — the  devil  1 " 

"  My  money  is  gone  !  all  my  money  1  "  whined  old  Judith, 
who  stood  in  mortal  dread  of  her  tameless  granddaughter. 
'*  All  my  money,  and  there  was  three  crowns,  two  half- 
crowns,  and  a  fi'penny  bit  I  And  she  gave  it  to  me,  too,  all 
for  myself — the  pretty  young  lady  i  " 

"  What  did  you  do  it  for,  you "     Mr.  Black  paused  with 

the  ephithet  on  his  tongue,  for  something  like  the  savage 
light  in  his  own  eyes  shone  in  his  daughter's,  and  warned 
him  that  it  would  be  safer  unsaid. 

"That's  not  much!"  she  said,  looking  at  him  with  a 
strange  laugh.  "  What  would  you  say  if  I  murdered  some- 
body and  was  going  to  be  hanged  ?  " 

"  Oh,  the  girl's  gone  mad  I  stark,  staring  mad  !  "  said  Mr. 
Black,  staring  again,  until  his  eyes  seemed  starting  from 
their  sockets, 

"No,  father,"  n 

"  Curse  it,  then  !  "  he  cried  ferociously,  "  what  do  you 
mean  by  looking  and  acting  like  this  ?  Stop  glowering  on 
me  like  that,  or  I'll  smash  in  your  face  for  you  as  I  would 
smash  an  eggshell" 

"  And  this  is  my  father  I  "  said  Barbara  with  the  same 
wild  laugh,  and  turning  toward  the  door  ;  "  don't  try  it, 
father  ;  it  would  not  be  safe.  Good  evening  to  you 
botho'' 

She  walked  rapidly  out  and  down  to  the  shore  with  a  step 
that  rung  like  steel  on  the  rocks.  A  slender  new  moon  was 
rising  away  in  the  east,  and  its  radiance  silvered  the  waves 
and  lighted  the  long,  white,  sandy  beach,  and  black  piles  of 
sea-weedy  rocks,  above  them.  The  tide  was  far  out,  and 
Barbara  strode  over  the  wet  shingles  and  slippery  seaweed, 
heeding  them  no  more  than  if  she  were  gliding  over  a 
moonlit  lawn,  and  never  stopped  until  she  found  herself 
within  the  gloomy  precincts  of  the  Demon's  Tower.     Then 


ACCEPTED. 


199 


N 


she  glanced  round  with  a  look  that  the  arch  fiend  himself 
might  have  envied. 

"  Here,  six  years  ago,  I  saved  her  life,"  she  said.  "  Oh, 
beautiful  heiress  of  Castle  Cliffe!  if  that  hour  would  only 
come  back,  and  I  were  looking  down  on  your  dying  strug- 
gles, as  I  could  have  done  that  night !  " 

She  leaned  against  the  dark  archway,  and  looked  over 
the  rocks.  The  scene  was  placid  and  serene  ;  the  waves 
murmured  low  on  the  sands  ;  the  boats  glided  over  the  silver 
shining  waters,  and  a  gay  party  of  fishermen's  girls,  their 
boat  floating  idly  on  the  long,  lazy  swell,  were  singing  the 
"  Evening  hymn  to  the  Virgin,"  and  the  words  came  clear 
and  sweet  to  where  she  stoodo 


"  Ave  sanctissima  I 

We  lift  our  souls  to  thee, 
Ora  pro  not'., 

'Tis  nightfall  on  the  sea. 
Watch  us  while  shadows  lie 

Far  o'er  the  waters  spread, 
Hear  the  heart's  lonely  sigh, 

Thine,  too,  hath  bled. 
.  Thou  that  hast  looked  on  death 

Aid  us,  when  death  is  near, 
Whisper  of  Heaven  to  faith, 

Sweet  mother,  sweet  mother,  hear. 
Ora  pro  nobis. 

The  waves  must  rock  our  sleep ; 
Ora  mater,  ora, 

Bright  star  of  the  deep." 


It  was  no  whisper  of  Heaven  that  changed  Barbara's  face 
so  strongly  as  she  listened.  Her  bent  brow  grew  rigid  and 
stern,  her  eye  darkened  with  deadly  resolve,  her  lips  com- 
pressed with  resolute  determination,  her  hands  clenched 
until  the  nails  sunk  into  the  rosy  flesh,  and  her  very  figure 
seemed  to  dilate  and  grow  tall  with  the  deadliest  resolve 
new-born  within  her. 

"  Barbara  I  "  A  gentle  voice  behind  pronounced  her 
name,  but  she  never  moved  or  turned  round.  "  Barbara, 
my  dear  girl,  what  are  you  doing  here  alone  in  this  place, 
and  at  this  hour  ?  " 

"  Thinking,  Mr.  Sweet/*         ' 

Mr.  Sweet,  shining  with    subdued  yellow  luster    in  the 


200     THE  hkire;ss  of  casti^k  cuffe. 


■  I. 


( 


i 

i 


white  moonlight,  got  over  the  rocks  with  a  face  full  of  con- 
cern, and  stood  beside  her. 

"  .ind  your  hands.  Barbara — what  ails  them?  they  are 
all  bleeding." 

She  had  cut  them  while  coming  over  the  rocks,  without 
ever  knowing  it  ;  and  now  she  looked  down  at  the  flowing 
blood  with  an  icy  smile. 

*'  It's  nothing.  I  have  been  bleeding  inwardly  for  the 
last  two  or  three  hours,  so  I  am  not  likely  to  mind  such  a 
trifle  as  torn  hands." 

"  Poor  little  hands !  "  said  Mr.  Sweet,  tenderly,  as  he 
took  out  his  handkerchief  and  began  \viping  away  the  blood. 
*'  My  dear,  dear  Barbara,  what  is  the  meaning  of  all  this  ? " 

"  Your  dear  Barbara !  How  many  have  you  called  dear, 
besides  me,  to  day,  Mr.  Sweet  ?  " 

*'  No  one  ;  you  alone  are  dear  to  me,  Barbara." 

"  Oh,  to  be  sure  !  Men  always  say  that,  and  always  mean 
it,  and  always  are  true.     I  believe  you  of  course." 

"  How  bitter  you  are !  " 

"  Not  at  all !  Broken  vows  and  broken  hearts  are  such 
everyday  matters,  that  it  is  hardly  worth  while  growing 
bitter  over  them." 

"  So  !  "  said  the  lawyer,  looking  at  her  steadily.  "  So 
you've  heard  all  ?  " 

"Everything,  Mr  Sweet." 

*•  Who  told  you  ?  " 

"  A  little  bird ;  or,  perhaps,  I  dreamed  it !  Is  it  such  a 
mystery  then  that  Miss  Shirley  and  Mr.  Cliffe  are  to  be- 
come man  and  wife  ?  " 

**  It  is  a  fact  but  it  is  also  a  secret.  Lady  Agnes  told  me 
as  soon  as  she  arrived ;  but  she  also  told  me  that  no  one 
knew  it  here  but  myself.  Where  can  you  have  heard  it, 
Barbara  ?  " 

"  Would  you  like  to  know  ?  "  ..J 

"Yes." 

"  It  is  quite  romantic  !  I  dressed  myself,  as  you  see,  to 
meet  my  love ;  for  I  beg  to  inform  you  that  the  heir  of 
Cliflfewood  and  the  fisherman's  daughter  were  engaged. 
He  came,  but  not  alone,  to  the  trysting-place — Miss  Shirley 
was  with  him,  and  they  had  quite  an  animated  talk  over 
their   approaching  nuptials.     Some  initials  were  <jut  upon  a 


I 


;  t. 


ACCEPTED. 


20 1 


ii 


tree,  his  and  mine,  and  it  was  his  hand  carved  them,  but  I 
heard  him  deny  it,  with  as  much  composure  as  any  vulgar 
liar  who  never  had  an  ancestor  in  the  world." 

"  Barbara,  how  strangely  you  talk,  and  how  wild  you 
look  I  Your  hand  is  like  ice  ;  you  are  ill  I  "  he  said,  really 
alarmed. 

"  Don't  distress  yourself,  Mr.  Sweet !  I  am  perfectly 
well !  "  ^    : 

"  May  I  talk  to  you,  then  ?  Will  you  listen  to  what  I  have 
to  say  ? " 

"  With  all  the  pleasure  in  life." 

"  Will  you  answer  my  questions  ?  " 

"  Begin  !  " 

"  You  love  Leicester  Cliffe  ?  " 

"Yes."  . 

*'  He  said  he  loved  you  ?  "  -'^- 

"He  did." 

'*  He  promised  to  marry  you?  " 

*'Yes."  ,.v,, 

"  Do  you  love  him  still  ?  "  "*?^ 

'*  Just  at  present,  very  much." 

"  You  know  he  is  to  be  married  to  Miss  Shirley  in  two 
weeks  ?  " 

**  I  think  I  had  the  pleasure  of  hearing  himself  mention 
the  fact." 

"  You  know  that  you  have  been  slighted,  scorned,  jilted, 
cast  off  for  her  ?  " 

"  I  don't  need  you  to  remind  me  of  that,  my  good 
friend," 

"  You  are  a  woman.  Slighted  women,  they  say,  never 
forgive  !     Barbara,  would  you  be  revenged  ?  " 

"  Such  is  my  intention,  Mr.  Sweet."  ^ 

There  was  such  deadly  intensity  of  purpose,  in  her  very 
quietude,  as  she  said  it,  that  it  chilled  even  Mr.  Sweet  for 
an  instant — albeit,  lawyers'  blood  does  not  easily  run  cold. 

"  How  ? "  he  asked,  looking  at  her  earnestly. 

"  That  is  my  affair,  sir  1 " 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  of  a  speedy  reVenge,  that  he  will  feel, 
as  you  can  make  him  feel  no  other  I  " 

"You  may." 
r    "  A  revenge  !  "  said  Mr.  Sweet,  his  very  voice  trembling 


1 


202       THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTILE  CI.IFFE. 

with  eagerness — "  a  revenge  that  will  pierce  his  heart,  Hke 
an  arrow  from  its  shaft — a  revenge  that  will  make  him  feel 
that  he  is  the  jilted  one,  and  not  you  ?  " 

"Name  it?" 

"  Marry  me  I  " 

"  Bah  1  "  said  she,  looking  down  on  him  with  her  scorn- 
ful eyes.  •*  As  if  he  could  not  see  through  so  pitiful  a  sham 
as  that.  How  reasonable  it  would  look,  that  I  would  for- 
sake the  heir 'of  Cliflfewood,  the  handsomest  man  in  Sussex, 
for  a  poor,  paltry  attorney,  old  enough  to  be  my  father,  and 
who  was,  certainly,  behind  the  door  when  beauty  was  given 
out!" 

The  sallow  face  of  the  lawyer  turned  actually  scarlet  for 
cne  moment ;  but  the  next,  he  laughed,  his  gay  and  musi- 
cal laugh. 

"  Well,  I  don't  set  up  for  a  beauty,  Barbara,  and  you 
know  Madame  De  Stael  says  men  have  the  privilege  of  look- 
ing ugly  1  You  have  not  answered  my  question.  Will  you 
marry  me  ? " 

"  No  1 "  she  said,  coldly.     "  What  good  would  it  do  ? " 

"  Only  this.  The  young  gentleman  leaves  to-morrow  for 
London,  and  will  not  return  until  next  Tuesday.  As  he  re- 
turns, let  his  first  greeting  be  the  news  that  Barbara  Black 
is  married !     Think  how  he  will  feel  that  ?  " 

"  He  will  not  care." 

"  He  will.  Men  never  like  the  women  who  have  once 
loved  them  to  marry  another,  whether  or  not  they  have 
ceased  to  love  her  themselves.  He  never  loved  you,  that  is 
plain  ;  but  it  will  cut  him  to  the  quick,  nevertheless,  to  find 
you  care  so  little  for  him  as  to  be  the  bride  of  another  I " 

"  If  I  thought  he  would  care  I  "  said  Barbara,  breathing 
quick. 

"  He  would  care.  And  if  he  ever  had  the  smallest  spark  of 
love  for  you,  it  will  spring  into  a  flame  the  moment  he  finds 
he  has  lost  you  forever  I  Think  what  a  triumph  it  would  be 
for  him  to  bear  off  his  beautiful  bride  in  triumph,  while  he 
fancied  you  were  pining  here  like  a  love-lorn  damsel,  fit  to 
cry  your  eyes  out  for  his  sweet  sake  I  " 

Her  eye  was  kindling,  her  cheek  flashing,  her  breath  com- 
ing quick  and  fast,  but  she  did  not  speak. 

"  You  shall  be  a  lady,  too,  Barbara !  "  said  the  phlegmatic 


ACCKPTKD. 


203 


F 

5 

i 


t 


:) 


y 


Mr.  Sweet,  kindling,  for  once,  into  something  like  excite- 
ment. "  You  shall  hold  up  your  head  with  the  highest  in 
the  land — yes,  higher  than  she  has  ever  held  hers,  with  its 
yellow  curls  !  You  shall  be  a  lady,  Barbara  ;  yes,  I  swear 
it!" 

Barbara  laughed,  something  like  her  old  laugh, 

"  You  are  simply  talking  nonsense,  Mr.  Sweet ;  neither 
you  nor  anybody  else  can  change  me  from  what  God  made 
me — a  fisherman's  daughter  I  " 

"  You  were  never  made  a  fisherman's  daughter  1  "  he  said, 
energetically,  and  then  he  stopped  and  knit  his  brows,  and 
changed  his  tone.  "  But,  Barbara,  if  you  want  revenge, 
marry  me !  I  am  a  rich  man,  and  Mrs.  Leicester  Cliff e 
will  not  long  look  down  on  Mrs.  Leicester  Sweet,  depend 
on  that" 

"  You  are  very  kind,  but  I  am  not  quite  so  bad  as  to  take 
you  at  your  word ;  for,  rest  assured,  if  you  married  me  you 
would  repent  it,  in  mental  sackcloth  and  ashes,  all  the  rest 
of  your  life  ! " 

"  I  will  risk  it ! "  he  said,  with  an  incredulous  smile, 
"  Only  consent." 

"  If  I  do,  you  will  repent !  "  '^     '  - 

"No," 

"  I  have  no  love  for  you.  I  cannot  answer  for  myself. 
It  shall  never  be  said  that  I  entrapped  you  or  any  one  else 
into  a  marriage,  for  my  own  ends.  Nothing  but  evil  can 
come  from  a  connection  with  me.  I  am  not  good  ;  and  so 
I  tell  you!" 

"  You  are  good  enough  for  me,  for  I  love  you." 

"  You  will  have  it,  I  see.  Remember,  if  I  consent,  tiiid 
you  repent  of  it  afterward,  you  have  been  warned." 

"  I  take  all  the  risk,  so  that  I  can  take  you  with  it !  " 

"  Very  well  then,  Mr.  Sweet !  "  she  said,  quietly.  "  I 
will  marry  you  whe^never  you  like!  "  .4       • 


.*s 


v-r 


204       THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CUFFE. 


CHAPTER  XXL 

Barbara's  bridal  eve. 


."  Where  is  Barbara  ? "  ~ 

Mr.  Sweet  was  th/»  speaker,  and  Mr.  Sweet  was  leaning 
in  Barbara's  favorue  position  on  the  mantel,  beating  an 
impatient  tattoo  on  its  smoky  ledge,  and  looking  down  on 
old  Judith,  who  sat  very  blear-eyed  and  .very  grimy  with 
smoke,  on  her  creepy  on  the  hearth.  Breakfast  was  just 
over  in  the  cottage,  for  a  quantity  of  very  sloppy  earthen- 
ware strewed  the  wooden  table. 

*<  Where  is  Barbara  ? "  repeated  Mr.  Sweet,  as  Judith's 
only  reply  was  to  blink  and  look  at  him  with  a  cute  smile. 

"  In  her  own  room !     Ah !  you've  done  it  at  last,  sir  !  " 

"  Done  what  ? " 

"  What  you  always  said  you  would  do — make  her  marry 
you," 

"  She  hasn't  married  me  yet,  that  I  know  of." 

"No,  sir;  no,  of  course  not;  but  she's  coming  to  it — ^ 
coming  to  it  fast." 

"  How  do  you  know  ? " 

"  Mr.  Sweet,  I  ain't  blind,  though  my  old  eyes  are  red 
and  watery  with  smoke,  and  I  saw  you  coming  up  from  the 
beach  last  night,  and  ah  !  you  was  sweet  upon  her,  you  was, 
Mr.  Sweet !  "  . 

"Well?" 

To  this  query  old  Judith  only  grinned  in  answer ;  and 
Mr.  Sweet  relaxed  into  a  smile  himself. 

"  You  are  quite  right,"  said  he,  pulling  out  his  watch  and 
glancing  at  it.     "  She  has  promised  to  marry  me." 

"  I  always  knew  it  I  "  cried  Judith,  rubbing  her  hands  in 
glee — "  I  always  said  it !  Nobody  could  ever  hold  out  long 
against  you.     Mr.  Sweet,  you  have  the  winningest   ways 


\ 


'at' 


■"0'  ■'■ 
I  I 


v;  ' 


BARBARA'S  BRIDAI,  EVE- 


205 


tff'^ 


I 


\  » 


with  you !     Ah !  she  has  come  to  luck,  has  my  handsome 
granddaughter !  "  v 

"  It  is  a  pity  your  handsome  granddaughter  is  not  of  the 
same  opinion  as  her  amiable  grandmother.  When  can  I 
see  her  ? " 

"  Directly,  sir.  I  will  go  and  tell  her ;  but  first — it's  no 
use  asking  her,  for  she  never  tells  me  anything — when  is  it 
going  to  be  ?  " 

"  When  is  what  going  to  be  ?  "  /^ 

''  The  wedding." 

"  That  is  precisely  what  I  want  to  know.  That  is  why  I 
have  made  such  an  early  call  on  your  handsome  grand- 
daughter this  morning." 

"  Didn't  you  settle  it  last  night  ?  " 

"  No.  She  told  me  she  would  marry  me  whenever  I 
liked,  and  then  she  turned  and  was  gone  like  a  flash  before 
we  could  come  to  any  further  terms." 

"  That  is  just  like  her  I  "  said  old  Judith,  no  way  aston- 
ished at  this  characteristic  trait,  as  ,she  walked  across  the 
room  and  rapped  at  her  granddaughter's  door.  There  was 
no  answer ;  and  she  knocked  again,  and  still  there  was  no 
reply.  Judith  turned  the  handle  of  the  door,  which  opened 
readily ;  and  she  entered,  while  .Mr.  Sweet,  a  little  startled, 
stood  on  the  threshold  and  looked  in. 

Barbara's  room  was  small,  and  not  at  all  the  immaculate 
apartment  the  heroine's  6f  a  story  should  be ;  for  dresses, 
and  mantles,  and  bonnets,  and  all  sorts  of  wearing  apparel 
were  hung  .  ''ound  the  walls ;  and  there  were  two  or  three 
pairs  of  gaiter-boots  strewn  over  the  floor,  with  books,  and 
papers,  and  magazines ;  and  the  table  in  the  corner  was 
one  great  lifter  of  sketches  and  engravings,  and  novels,  and 
painting  materials,  and  a  guitar  (Mr.  Sweet's  gift)  on  the 
top  of  all.  There  was  a  little  easel  in  one  corner,  for  Bar- 
bara was  quite  an  artist ;  and  this,  with  the  small  bed  and 
one  chair,  quite  filled  the  little  chamber,  so  that  there  was 
scarcely  room  to  move.  But  the  bed  was  neatly  made — 
evidently  it  had  not  been  slept  in  the  preceding  night,  and 
sitting  on  the  solitary  chair  at  the  window,  in  the  gauzy- 
white  dress  of  the  preceding  evening,  her  arms  resting  on 
the  ledge,  her  head  on  them,  was  Barbara,  asleep.  The 
exclamation  of  Judith  at  the   sight   awoke  her ;    and  she 


2o6     THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E   CUFFE.      l^' 

lifted  her  face,  and  looked  at  them  vaguely  at  first,  as  if 
wondering  how  she  and  they  came  to  be  where  they  were. 
It  all  came  back  to  her  in  a  moment,  however ;  and  she 
rose  to  her  feet,  gathered  up  the  fallen  braids  of  her  hair, 
and  looked  at  Mr,  Sweet  with  a  haughty  eye. 

"Well  sir,"  she  demanded,  angrily,  "and  what  are  you 
doing  here  ? " 

"  It  wasn't  his  fault, "  cut  in  Judith.  'M  rapped  twice, 
and  you  never  answered,  and  I  thought  something  had  hap- 
pened, and  I  asked  him  to  come  in." 

This  last  little  fiction  being  invented  to  avert  the  storm  of 
wrath  that  was  kindling  in  Barbara's  fiery  eye. 

"Well,  sir/'  reiterated  Miss  Barbara,  still  transfixing  her 
disconcerted  suitor  with  her  steady  glance,  "and  being  here, 
what  do  you  want  ?  " 

This  was  certainly  not  very  encouraging,  and  by  no  means 
smoothed  the  way  for  so  ardent  a  lover  to  ask  his  lady-love 
to  name  the  day.  So  Mr.  Sweet  began  in  a  very  humble 
and  subdued  tone  indeed  : 

"I  am  very  sorry,  Miss  Barbara,  for  this  intrusion  ;  but 
surely  you  have  not  been  sitting  by  that  window,  exposed 
to  the  draft  all  night  ?  " 

* '  Have  you  come  all  the  way  from  Cliftonlea,  and  taken 
the  trouble  to  wake  me  up  to  say  that,  Mr.  Sweet  ?  " 

Mr.  Sweet  thought  of  the  plastic  Barbara  he  had  had  last 
night,  and  wondered  where  she  had  gone  to.  Mr.  Sweet 
did  not  know,  perhaps,  that 

'*  Colors  seen  by  candlelight 
Do  not  look  the  same  by  day."  - 

and  women,  being  like  weathercocks  or  chameleons,  are 
liable  to  change  sixty  times  an  hour.  - ,: 

"  Barbara,"  he  cried  in  desperation,  "  have  you  forgotten 
your  promise  of  last  night  ?  "  .  -  _ 

^    "No!" 

"It  is  on  that  subject  that  I  came  to  speak.  Can  I  not 
see  you  for  a  moment  alone  ?  " 

"  There  is  not  the  slightest  need,  sir.  If  you  have  any- 
thing to  say,  out  with  it !  " 

For  once  in  his  life,  the  oily  and  debonair  Mr.  Sweet  was 
tot  illy  disconcerted.     "Not  at  home  to  suitors  "  was  written 


I; 

\ 
i 

4 


\:r 


t 


•i>-7A. 


BARBARA'S  BRIDAly  EVK. 


207 


k 


1; 


in  capital  letters  on  Barbara's  bent  brow  and  stern  eye  ;  yet 
there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  go  on.       - 

"  You  said  last  night,  Barbara,  that  you  would  marry  me 
whenever  f*liked  I  That  would  be  within  this  hour,  if  I 
could ;  and  as,  perhaps,  you  would  not  fancy  so  rapid  a  busi- 
ness, will  you  please  to  name  some  more  definite  date  ?  " 

He  quailed  inwardly  as  he  spoke,  lest  she  should  retract 
the  promise  of  last  night  altogether.  He  knew  he  held  her 
only  by  a  hair,  and  that  it  was  liable  to  snap  at  any  mo- 
ment. Her  face  looked  foreboding,  sunless,  smileless,  and 
dark  ;  and  the  eye  immovably  fixed  upon  him,  had  little  of 
yielding  or  tenderness  in  it. 

"  The  time  is  so  short,  Barbara,"  he  pleaded  with  a  sink- 
ing heart,  "  that  it  must  be  soon."  x.- 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  " 

"  Within  this  present  week,  Barbara,  or  if  that  is  top 
soon,  next  Monday.  That  will  give  you  time  for  your  prep- 
arations." 

"  I  have  no  preparations  to  make  I  " 

"  For  mine  then.  Do  you  consent  that  it  shall  be  next 
Monday?"  -  s. 

'*  Mr.  Sweet,  I  said  last  night  it  should  be  whenever  you 
pleased.  I  say  the  same  thing  to-day  I  There,  you  need 
not  thank  me  ;  do  me  the  favor  to  go  away  1  " 

"  Only  one  moment,  Barbara.  You  must  have  dresses, 
you  know.  I  shall  give  orders  to  that  Frenchwoman  up  in 
Cliftonlea.  and  she  will  come  down  here  to  see  you,  and 
provide  you  with  everything  you  want." 

Barbara  stood  looking  at  him  stonily,  with  the  door  in  her 
hand.  Old  Judith  was  glancing  from  one  to  the  other  with 
her  keen  eyes. 

"  On  Monday  morning,  at  ten,  you  will  be  ready,  and  I 
will  drive  down  here  and  take  you  to  the  church,  and  an- 
other thing,  you  must  have  a  bridemaid." 

"  I  have  one  thing  to  say  to  you,  sir,"  said  Barbara, 
opening  her  compressed  lips,  "  that  if  you  torment  me  too 
much  with  these  wretched  details,  there  shall  neither  be 
bridesmaid  nor  bride  on  that  day.  Whatever  is  to  be  done, 
you  must  do  yourself.  I  shall  have  neither  act  nor  part  in 
this  business.  Let  me  alone  and  1  will  marry  you  on  Mon- 
day, since  you  wish  it.     Begin  to  harass  me  with  this  stupid 


2o8        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CI.IFFE. 


rubbish,  about   dresses   and   bridemaids,  and  I  will    have 
nothing  whatever  to  say  to  you." 

With  which  harsh  and  decided  valedictory,  the  impatient 
bride-elect  closed  the  door  in  their  faces,  and  turned  the 
key  inside  to  the  unspeakable  discomposure  of  the  lawyer, 
and  the  intense  delight  of  the  amiable  old  lady,  who  grinned 
maliciously,  until  a  very  yellow  blush  in  her  sunken  jaws 
was  visible. 

**  Oh,  it  is  a  charming  courtship,  a  charming  courtship  1  " 
she  chuckled,  rubbing  her  hands  and  leering  up  sideways 
at  her  visitor.  '*  And  she  is  a  sweet  bride,  she  is.  I  wish 
you  joy  of  her,  Mr.  Sweet  I  " 

"  My  good  old  soul  !  "  said  that  gentleman,  bringing  the 
yellow  luster  of  his  eyes  and  smile  to  bear  on  his  friend, 
"  don't  be  malicious.  Don't,  or  you  and  I  will  fall  out  I 
Think  what  a  pity  that  would  be,  after  having  been  tried 
and  trusty  friends  so  long  !  " 

Perhaps  it  was  at  the  bare  idea  of  losing  the  invaluable 
friendship  of  so  good  a  man,  or,  perhaps,  it  was  at  some 
hidden  menace  in  his  tone  and  look,  that  made  Judith  cower 
down,  and  shrink  away  fearfully  under  his  calm  gaze. 

"  I  expect  you  to  do  everything  in  your  power  for  me,"  he 
went  on,  "  in  the  present  case.  You  see  she  is  wilful,  and 
will  do  nothing  herself ;  her  promise  is  as  frail  and  brittle  as 
glass ;  if  I  leaned  on  it  ever  so  lightly  it  would  shiver  into 
atoms  beneath  me,  therefore  I  cannot  venture  to  speak  to 
her.  You  must  act  for  her ;  and,  my  dear  old  friend, 
if  you  don't  act  to  the  utmost  of  your  power,  you  will  find 
yourself  within  the  stone  walls  of  Cliftonlea  jail  before  the 
wedding-day  dawns  I " 

"  Oh  what  can  I  do  ?  "  whimpered  old  Judith,  putting  her 
dirty  apron  to  her  eyes.  "  I  dassent  speak  to  her.  I'm 
afraid  of  her.  Her  eyes  are  like  coals  of  fire !  I  am  sure 
I  want  her  married  as  much  as  you  do.  I  never  have  any 
peace  with  her  at  all  1  " 

"  Very  well,  I  think  we  shall  not  fall  out.  I  am  going 
now,  and  I  will  send  my  housekeeper  down  here  for  one  of 
her  gowns,  and  the  Frenchwoman  must  make  them  by  that, 
for  Barbara  won't  be  measured,  it  appears.  Does  my  dear 
friend,  Peter  Black,  know  anything  about  this  yet  ? " 

"No,  he  don't." 


m 


*  1  '■ 


I 


BARBARA'S  BRIDAI,  EVE. 


209 


I 


/  '  ■ 


'i 


\ 


I 

? 


I 


"  Then  I  shall  take  the  earliest  opportunity  of  letting  him 
know.  I  should  like  to  have  my  intended  father-in-law's 
blessing,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.     Where  is  he  ?  " 

"  Oh,  where  he  always  is,  drinking  goes  of  gin  and  water 
at  the  Cliffe  Arms  1  " 

^*  Dear,  imprudent  boy  I  I  suppose  he  requires  a  gentle 
stimulant  to  keep  up  his  spirits.  Good  morning,  Mistress 
Judith,  and  try  if  the  future  Mrs.  Sweet  will  not  partake  of 
some  breakfast  ? 

With  this  parting  piece  of  advice,  the  pleasant  lawyer 
walked  away,  drawing  on  his  gloves  and  humming  gayly,  the 
"  Time  I  have  Lost  in  Wooing." 

Judith  did  not  take  his  advice,  however,  regarding  the 
breakfast.  She  would  almost  as  soon  have  put  her  head  inside 
of  a  lion's  den  as  into  the  little  room  where  her  handsome 
granddaughter  sat.  It  needed  no  second  sight  to  see  that 
the  old  woman  stood  in  the  greatest  awe  of  the  grave, 
majestic  girl,  who  looked  at  people  so  strangely  and  wildly 
out  of  her  dark  spectral  eyes — an  awe  which,  truth  to  tell, 
her  sulky  and  savage  son  shared.  The  dogged  and  sullen 
ferocity  of  the  man  cowered  under  the  fiercer  and  higher 
spirit  of  his  daughter,  and  Miss  Black,  for  the  last  two  or 
three  years,  had  pretty  much  reigned  Lady  Paramount  in 
the  cottage.  The  gray  mare  in  that  stable  was  by  long  odds 
the  better  horse  1  So  Judith  lit  her  pipe,  and  sat  on  her 
stool  by  the  smoldering  lire,  and  she  and  it  puffed  out  little 
clouds  of  smoke  together,  and  the  big  brass  hands  of  the  old 
Dutch  clock  went  swinging  round  to  twelve,  and  nobody  en- 
tered the  cottage,  and  no  sounds  came  from  the  little  cham- 
ber, and  the  future  Mrs.  Sweet  got  no  breakfast,  when,  at 
last,  a  shadow  darkened  the  sunny  doorway,  and  a  meek 
little  woman  presented  herself,  and  claimed  the  honor  of  be- 
ing Mr.  Sweet's  housekeeper.  Luckily  there  was  a  dress  of 
Barbara's  hanging  in  the  kitchen,  or  Judith  would  have  been 
between  the  horns  of  a  very  sad  dilemma,  in  fear  of  the 
lawyer  on  one  hand  and  the  young  lady  on  the  other ;  and 
the  meek  little  matron  rolled  it  up,  and  hastened  off  to  the 
French  modiste  up  in  the  town.  '  -  ' 

That  was  Wednesday :  and  as  there  was  only  three  work- 
ing days  between  him  and  his  bridal  morning,  Mr.  Sweet 
seemed  in  a  fair  way  to  have  his  hands  full.     There  was  a 


2IO        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CUFFE. 

long  talk  to  be  had  in  the  first  place  with  that  dear  boy, 
Peter  Black,  who  swore  a  great  many  oaths  under  his  un- 
kempt beard,  and  couldn't  be  brought  to  reason  until  Mr. 
Sweet  had  smiled  a  great  deal,  and  referred  several  times  to 
Mr.  Jack  Wildman,  and  finally  ordered  another  go  of  gin 
and  water  for  his  future  parent-in-law,  and  clapped  him  on 
the  back,  and  slipped  two  guineas  into  his  horny  palm. 
Then  Mr.  Black  growled  out  his  paternal  assent,  and  scowled 
like  a  tipsy  tiger  on  his  new  son,  who  only  laughed  good- 
naturedly,  and  patting  him  on  the  back  again,  walked  away. 

Then  he  had  to  visit  Madame  Modiste,  the  fashionable 
dressmaker,  who  came  in  smiling  and  dipping,  and  with 
whom  he  held  another  consultation,  and  filled  out  a  blank 
check,  and  obtained  a  promise  that  everything  should  be 
ready  on  Saturday  night. 

There  were  a  thousand  and  one  other  little  things  to  do, 
for  getting  married  is  a  very  fussy  piece  of  business ;  but  the 
Cliftonlea  lawyer  was  equal  to  matrimony  or  any  other  emer- 
gency, and  everything  bade  fair  to  come  off  swimmingly. 

Lady  Agnes  Shirley  had  to  be  informed  the  next  day,  for 
he  wanted  leave  of  absence  for  two  or  three  days,  to  make 
a  short  bridal-tour  to  London  and  back ;  and  Lady  Agnes, 
with  as  much  languid  amaze  as  any  lady  in  her  position 
could  be  expected  to  get  up,  gave  him  carte  blanche  to  stay 
a  month,  if  he  pleased.  Then  there  was  the  license  and 
ring  to  procure,  and  the  wedding-breakfast  to  order,  and 
some  presents  of  jewelry  to  make  to  his  bride,  and  new 
furniture  to  get  for  his  house,  and  the  short  week  went ;  and 
only  he  was  so  impatient  to  make  sure  of  his  bride,  Mr. 
Sweet  could  have  wished  every  day  forty-eight  hours  long, 
and  then  found  them  too  short  for  all  he  had  to  do. 

But  if  the  bridegroom  was  busy  from  day-dawn  to  mid- 
night, the  bride  made  up  for  it  by  doing  nothing  whatever 
on  the  face  of  the  earth,  unless  sitting  listlessly  by  the  win- 
dow, with  her  hands  folded,  could  be  called  doing  something. 
All  the  restlessness,  all  the  fire,  all  the  energy  of  her  nature 
seemed  to  have  gone  like  a  dream ;  and  she  sat  all  day  long 
looking  out  with  dyll,  dread  eyes  over  the  misty  marshes 
and  the  ceaseless  sea.  She  scarcely  ate  ;  she  scarcely  slept 
at  all ;  she  turned  her  listless  eyes  without  pleasure  or  in- 
terest on  the  pretty  dresses  and  jewels,  the  flowers  and  fruity 


\ 


BARBARA'S  BRIDAI.  EVE. 


81. 


! 


her  friends  daily  brought,  and  then  turned  away  again,  as  if 
they  had  merely  struck  on  the  nerve  of  vision  without  con- 
veying the  slightest  idea  to  her  mind.  Thursday,  Friday, 
and  Saturday,  she  passed  in  a  dull  dream — the  lull  that  pre- 
cedes the  tempest.  But  when  Sunday  came,  her  bridal  eve, 
she  awoke  from  her  lethargy  at  last. 

Sunday  had  always  been  the  pleasantest  day  in  Barbara's 
week.  She  liked  to  hear  the  musical  bells  chiming  over  the 
sunny  downs  ;  she  liked  to  go  up  into  the  grand  old  cathe- 
dral with  its  old-fashioned  stained-glass  windows  and  sleepy 
hollows  of  pews.  She  liked  to  wander  through  the  quiet 
streets  of  the  town,  hu.shed  in  Sabbath  stillness  ;  and  in  the 
purple  sunset  she  liked  to  lie  on  the  rocks,  lazy  as  a  Syb- 
arite, and  listen  drowsily  to  the  murmuring  trees  and  waves. 
But  it  was  a  dull  Sunday  this — a  dreary  day,  with  the 
watery  sky  of  lead — a  dismal  day,  with  a  raw  sea  wind  and 
fog — a  miserable  day,  with  the  drizzling  rain  blotting  out  the 
mirshes  in  a  blank  of  v/et  and  cold — a  suicidal  day,  with  a 
ceaseless  drip,  drip,  dr.p.  The  windows  were  blurred  and 
clammy ;  the  waves  roaring  and  swashing  witli  an  eerie  roar 
over  the  rocks,  and  everything  slimy  and  damp,  cheerless 
and  uncomfortable.  And  on  this  wretched  day,  the  bride- 
elect  woke  from  her  heavy  trance,  and  became  possessed  of 
a  walking  demon.  She  wandered  aimlessly  in  and  out  of 
her  own  room,  down  to  the  soaking  and  splashing  shore, 
over  the  wet  and  shiny  rocks,  along  the  dark  and  dreary 
marshes,  and  back  again  into  the  house,  with  her  clothes  wet 
and  clinging  around  her,  and  still  unable  to  sit  down  any- 
where. 

After  the  one  o'clock  dinner,  she  retreated  again  to  her 
chamber,  heedless  of  Judith's  warnings  to  change  her  clothes, 
and  did  not  make  her  appearance  until  the  dark  day  was 
changed  into  a  darker  and  dismaler  evening.  The  cottage 
kitchen  looked,  if  possible,  more  cheerless  and  disordered  than 
ever.  The  green  wood  on  the  hearth  sputtered,  and  hissed, 
and  puffed  out  vicious  clouds  of  smoke ;  and  Judith  and  her 
son  were  at  the  wooden  table  partaking  of  a  repast  of  beef 
and  brown  bread,  when  her  door  opened,  and  Barbara  came 
out  shawled  and  bonneted  for  a  walk.  She  paused  to  give 
one  look  of  unutterable  disgust  at  the  whole  scene,  and  then, 
without  heeding  the  words  of  either,  walked  out  into  the  dis- 


■ 


212        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CWFFE. 


mal  evening.  Little  pools  of  water  filled  the  road,  and  the 
chill  wind  blew  the  rain  in  her  face ;  but>  perfectly  indifferent 
to  all  outward  things,  she  went  on,  entering  the  park  gate, 
and  took  her  way  through  the  avenues,  and  heavy  and  drip- 
ping trees,  up  to  the  old  manor. 

Night  was  falling  when  she  reached  it — a  miserable  night 
— enough  to  give  any  wayfarer  the  horrors  ;  but  long  lines 
of  light  streamed  from  the  rows  of  windows,  and  showed  her 
the  way  to  the  side-door,  where  she  stopped  and  rung  the 
servants'  bell. 

A  footman  opened  it,  and  a  flood  of  light  from  the  hall- 
lamp  fell  on  the  tall,  wet  figure  standing  pale  in  the  doorway. 

"  Oh,  it's  you.  Miss  Black,  is  it  ?  "  said  the  man,  who 
knew  Barbara  very  well ;  "  come  in.     Wet  night — isn't  it  ?  " 

"  La !  Barbara,  my  dear  I  "  cried  Mrs.  Wilder  the  house- 
keeper, who  was  passing  through  the  hall  with  a  trayful  of 
bedroom  candlesticks.  "  I  haven't  seen  you  for  a  month,  I 
think.  What  in  the  world  has  brought  you  out  such  a  nasty 
night  ? " 

"  I  have  come  to  see  Colonel  Shirley,"  said  Barbara,  en- 
tering.    "  Is  he  at  home  ?  "  ^ 

She  had  scarcely  spoken  before  that  day,  and  her  voice 
seemed  strange  and  unnatural  even  to  herself.  Mrs.  Wilder 
started  as  she  heard  it,  and  gave  a  little  scream  as  she  took 
another  look  at  Barbara's  face. 

"  What  on  hearth  !  "  said  Mrs.  Wilder,  who,  when  flus- 
tered, had  a  free-and-easy  way  of  taking  up  and  dropping 
her  "  h's  "  at  pleasure.  "  What  on  hearth  hails  you,  my 
dear  ?     You  look  like  a  ghost — don't  she,  Johnson  ?  " 

"  Uncommon  like,  I  should  say ! "  remarked  "Mr.  Johnson. 
♦*  Been  sick,  Miss  Black  ? " 

"  No  I "  said  Barbara,  impatiently.  "  I  want  to  see 
Colonel  Shirley.  Will  you  have  the  goodness,  Mrs.  Wilder, 
to  tell  him  Barbara  Black  is  here,  and  wishes  particularly  to 
see  him  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I'll  tell  him !  Come  along  up-stairs.  I  was 
just  going  into  the  drawing-room  with  these  candlesticks,  any 
wajr,  "  'Ere,  just  step  into  the  dining-room,  and  I'll  let  Win 
know." 

Barbara  stepped  into  the  blaze  of  light  filling  the  spacious 
dining-room  from  a  huge  chandelier,  where  gods  and  god" 


: 


'I 


BARBARA'S  BRIDAI.  EVE. 


213 


t 
■i 


desses  played  hide-and-seek  in  a  forest  of  frosted  silver ; 
where  a  long  table  flashed  with  cut-glass,  and  porcelain,  and 
silver-plate,  and  bouquets  of  hot-house  exotics,  in  splendid 
vases  of  purple  spar  and  snowy  alabaster ;  where  a  carved 
oaken  sideboard  was  loaded  with  wine  and  dessert,  and  where 
the  walls  were  brilliant  with  pictures  of  the  chase  and  ban- 
queting scenes.  It  was  all  so  glaringly  bright  and  dazzling, 
that  Barbara  was  half  blinded  for  a  moment ;  but  she  only 
looked  quietly  around,  and  thought  of  the  smoky  kitchen, 
and  the  bare  deal  table,  with  the  brown  bread  and  beef  at 
home.  She  could  hear  voices  in  the  blue  drawing-room 
(which  was  only  separated  from  the  one  she  was  in  by  a 
curtained  arch),  and  the  echo  of  gay  laughter,  and  then  the 
curtain  was  lifted,  and  Colonel  Shirley  appeared,  his  whole 
face  lit  with  an  eager  smile  of  welcome,  and  both  his  friendly 
hands  extended. 

"  My  good  little  Barbara  !  my  dear  little  Barbara  1  and  so 
you  have  come  to  see  us  at  last !  " 

She  let  him  take  both  her  hands  in  his  ;  but  as  he  clasped 
them",  the  glad  smile  faded  from  his  animated  face,  and  gave 
place  to  one  of  astonishment  and  concern.  For  the  beauti- 
ful face  was  so  haggard  and  worn,  so  wasted  and  pale ;  the 
smooth  white  brow  furrowed  by  such  deep  lines  of  suffering ; 
-  the  eyes  so  unnaturally,  so  feverishly  bright ;  the  hands  so 
wan  and  icily  cold,  that  he  might  well  look  in  surprised  con- 
sternation. 

"  My  dear  little  Barbara !  "  he  said,  in  wonder  and  in  sor- 
row ;  "  what  is  the  meaning  of  all  this  ?  Have  you  been 
ill  ?  " 


voice   is   changed !     Barbara,  what   is   the 


I  think  1     Sit  down  here  and  tell  me  what 


"  No,  sir  !  " 

"  Your   very 
matter  ?  " 

"  Nothing !  " 

"  Something, 
it  is." 

He  drew  up  an  easy-chair  and  placed  her  in  it,  taking 
one  opposite,  and  looking  anxiously  into  the  wasted  and 
worn  face. 

"  Barbara,  Barbara  !  something  is  wrong  —very  much  is 
wrong  !  Will  you  not  tell  an  old  friend  what  has  changed 
you  like  this  ?  " 


214      THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CIvIFFE. 


"  No,"  she  said,  looking  with  her  lustrous  eyes  straight 
into  his. 

He  sat  silent,  watching  her  with  grave,  pitying  tenderness, 
then : 

"  Why  have  you  not  been  to  see  us  before,  Barbara  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  wish  to,"  said  Barbara,  whose  innate  upright- 
ness and  indomitable  pride  made  her  always  speak  the 
straightforward  truth. 

"  Do  you  know  that  Vivia  sent  for  you  almost  every 
day  ? " 

"Yesl" 

"  Why  did  you  not  come  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  wish  to." 

"  Do  you  know  that  my  daughter  and  I  went  to  your 
cottage  the  day  after  our  return  to  see  you  ? " 

"Yes  I" 

"  We  did  not  see  you ;  your  grandmother  said  you  were 
ill.     What  was  the  matter  ?  " 

"  I  was  not  ill,  but  I  could  not  see  you." 

More  perplexed  than  ever,  the  colonel  looked  at  her, 
wondered  what  mystery  was  behind  all  this  to  have  changed 
her  so. 

"  I  have  heard,  Barbara,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "  that  you 
are  going  to  be  married.     Is  it  true  ? " 

"  It  is." 

"And  to  Mr.  Sweet?" 

"  To  Mr.  Sweet  I  "  she  said,  calmly ;  but  with  the  feverish 
fire  still  streaming  from  her  eyes. 

His  only  answer  was  to  take  her  hand  again  in  both  his 
own,  and  look  at  her  in  a  way  he  sometimes  looked  at  his 
own  daughter  of  late — half  sadly,  half  gayly,  half  tenderly. 
Barbara  was  looking  at  him,  too.  There  was  something  so 
grand  in  the  man's  face,  something  so  noble  in  his  broad, 
serene  brow ;  something  so  genial  in  his  blue  eye,  shining 
with  the  blended  fire  of  man  and  tenderness  of  woman ; 
something  so  sweet  and  strong  in  the  handsome,  smiling 
mouth,  something  so  protecting  in  the  clasp  of  the  firm 
hand ;  something  so  infinitely  good  and  great  in  the  up- 
right bearing  of  figure,  and  kind  voice,  that  Barbara's  heart 
broke  out  into  a  great  cry,  and  clinging,  to  the  strong  arm 


Jim 


\"-  ■..: 


BARBARA'S  BRIDAI.  EVE. 


215 


as  if  it  were  her  last  hope,  she  dropped  down  on  her  knees 
at  his  feet,  and  covered  his  hand  with  passionate  kisses. 

"Oh,  my  friend  !  my  friend  I  "  she  cried,  "  you  who  are 
so  noble,  and  so  good,  who  have  been  kind  and  tender  to 
me  always,  and  whom  I  love  and  revere  more  than  all  the 
world  besides,  I  could  not  do  it  until  I  had  heard  you  say 
one  kind  word  to  me  again  I  I  could  not  sell  my  soul  to 
perdition,  until  I  had  knelt  at  your  feet,  and  told  you  how 
much  I  thank  you,  how  much  I  love  you,  and  now,  if  I 
dared,  I  would  pray  for  you  all  the  rest  of  my  life  1  Oh,  I 
am  the  wickedest  and  basest  wretch  on  God's  earth !  but  if 
there  is  anything  in  this  world  that  could  have  redeemed 
me,  and  made  me  what  I  once  was,  what  I  never  will  be 
again,  it  is  the  memory  of  you  and  your  goodness — you, 
for  whose  sake  I  could  die." 

She  sunk  lower  down,  her  face  and  his  hand  all  blotted 
with  the  rain  of  tears  ;  and  quite  beside  himself  with  con- 
sternation, the  Indian  officer  strove  to  raise  her  up. 

"  Barbara,  my  dear  child,  for  Heaven's  sake,  rise  I  Tell 
me,  I  beg  of  you,  what  you  mean  1  " 

"  No,  no,  I  cannot  I  I  dare  not  1  but  if  in  the  time  to 
come,  the  miserable  time  to  come,  you  hear  me  spoken  of 
as  something  not  fit  to  name,  you  will  think  there  is  one 
spot  in  my  wretched  heart  free  from  guilt,  where  your 
memory  will  be  ever  cherished  1  Try  and  think  of  me  at 
my  best,  no  matter  what  people  may  say !  " 

Before  he  could  speak,  the  door  opened,  and  Barbara 
leaped  to  her  feet  with  a  rebound.  A  fairy  figure,  in  a 
splendid  dinner  toilet,  with  jewels  flashing  on  the  neck  and 
arms,  and  a  circlet  of  gems  clasping  back  the  flowing  curls, 
came  in  with  a  delighted  little  cry  of  girlish  delight. 

"  Oh,  Barbara  I  Barbara  I  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you  1  " 

But  Barbara  recoiled  and  held  out  both  arms  with  a  ges- 
ture of  such  unnatural  terror  and  repulsion,  that  the  shining 
figure  stopped  and  looked  at  her  in  speechless  amaze ;  and 
then  before  either  she  or  her  father  could  speak,  or  inter- 
cept her,  she  was  across  the  room,  out  of  the  door,  through 
the  hall,  down  the  stairs,  and  out  into  the  wet,  black  night 
again.  Mr.  Peter  Black  had  long  retired  to  seek  the  balmy 
before  his  daughter  got  home  ;  Judith  was  sitting  up  for  her, 
very  cross  and  sleepy  in  her  corner ;  and  Mr.  Sweet  was 


2i6     THK  he;irk3S  of  casti,^  cuffk. 

there,  too,  walking  up  and  down  the  room,  feverishly  im- 
patient and  anxious.  Barbara  came  in  soaking  wet,  and 
without  looking  or  speaking  to  either  of  them,  walked 
straight  to  her  room.  The  bridegroom  sought  his  own 
home,  with  an  anxious  heart ;  and  the  happy  bride  sat  by 
her  window  the  whole  livelong  night  I 


\ 


FOR  BREAD  RECEIVING  A  STONE.       217 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


ASKING  FOR  BREAD  AND  RECEIVTTir;  a  STONE. 


It  is  not  a  very  pleasant  notion  for  any  lady  or  gentle- 
man to  take  it  into  their  heads  that  they  have  made  fools 
of  themselves,  yet  Mr.  Leicester  Cliffe,  albeit  not  given  to 
hold  too  humble  an  opinion  of  himself,  had  just  arrived  at 
that  comfortable  conclusion,  as  the  cars  whirled  him  back 
from  London  to  Sussex.  Absence,  like  death,  shows  per- 
sons and  things  in  their  proper  light,  and  strips  the  gilding 
from  granite ;  and  as  distance  removed  the  glamour  from 
his  eyes,  the  heir  of  Cliffewood  had  taken  to  serious  reflec- 
tion and  come  to  a  few  very  decided  decisions — imprimis ^ 
that  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  Barbara  the  first  time  that 
he  had  ever  seen  her  ;  that  he  had  loved  her  ever  since, 
that  he  loved  her  now,  and  that  he  was  likely  to  keep  on 
doing  so  as  long  as  it  was  in  him  to  love  anybody.  Sec- 
ond, that  he  admired  and  respected  his  pretty  cousin  exces- 
sively ;  that  he  knew  she  was  a  thousand  times  too  pure  for 
such  a  sinner  as  he,  and  that  he  had  never  for  one  instant 
felt  a  stronger  sentiment  for  her  than  admiration.  '  Thirdly, 
he  was  neither  more  nor  less  than  an  unmitigated  coward 
and  villain  for  whom  hanging  woula  be  too  good.  But  just 
as  he  arrived  at  this  consoling  conclusion,  and  was  uttering 
a  mental  "  Mea  culpa  !  "  he  suddenly  bethought  himself  of 
the  wise  old  saw — "  It  is  never  too  late  to  mend  !  "  and 
Hope  once  more  planted  her  shining  foot  on  the  threshold 
of  his  heart.  What  if  now  that  his  eyes  were  opened,  even 
now  at  the  eleventh  hour,  he  were  to  draw  back,  kneel  be- 
fore the  lady  of  his  love,  and  be  forgiven.  He  knew  she 
would  forgive  ;  she  loved  him,  and  women  are  so  much  like 
spaniels  by  nature,  that  the  worse  they  are  used  the  more 
they  will  fawn  on  the  abuser.  Perhaps  she  even  had  not 
heard  it  yet,  and  he  could  easily  find  excuses  that  would 


2i8        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CI.IFFE. 


: 


! 


satisfy  her  for  his  absence  and  silence.  It  was  true  that 
would  leave  him  in  a  nice  predicament  with  Miss  Shirley — 
so  nice  a  one  that  it  was  like  jumping  out  of  the  frying-pan 
into  the  fire  ;  but  then  Miss  Shirley  did  not  care  a  straw 
about  him  one  way  or  the  other  ;  she  married  him  as  a 
matter  of  obedience,  just  as  she  would  have  married  Mr, 
Sweet,  the  lawyer,  if  papa  and  grandmamma  had  insisted 
upon  it.  She  would  not  suffer  by  his  leaving  her — ^there 
were  scores  of  better  men  ready  and  willing  to  take  his 
place,  and  her  name  would  not  be  injured  by  it,  for  no  one 
knew  of  their  engagement.  Not  that  Mr.  Leicester' 
dreamed  for  one  instant  of  being  Quixote  enough  to  avow 
his  sentimental  intention.  He  shrunk  in  horror  at  the  bare 
idea  of  the  unheard-of  scene  that  would  ensue,  and  which 
would  probably  end  by  his  being  shot  like  a  dog  by  that 
fire-eating  Colonel  Cliffe  ;  but  he  would  induce  Barbara  to 
elope  with  him  ;  he  would  marry  her  probably  in  London, 
and  then  with  his  bride  would  set  sail  for  America  or  Aus- 
tralia, or  some  other  howling  wilderness,  and  live  happy 
forever  after.  And  having  settled  the  whole  matter  to  his 
infinite  satisfaction,  he  leaned  back  in  his  seat,  opened  the 
Times,  and  was  borne  swiftly  on,  not  to  Victoria's  but  to 
Barbara's  feet. 

And  while  the  grimy  engine  was  tearing  over  the  level  track, 
vomiting  clouds  of  black  smoke,  and  groaning  with  the  com- 
motion in  its  iron  bowels,  the  said  Barbara,  all  unconscious  of 
her  good  fortune,  was  very  differently  employed,  in  nothing 
less  than  in  dressing  for  her  bridal.  A  splendid  morning  of 
sunshine  and  summer  breezes  had  followed  the  gloomy  night, 
and  Mr.  Sweet  had  risen  with  the  lark ;  nay,  fully  two  hours 
before  that  early  bird  had  woke  from  his  morning  nap,  and 
had  busily  proceeded  to  make  all  the  final  arrangements  for 
his  marriage.  Before  sitting  down  to  his  eight  o'clock 
breakfast,  of  which  he  found  he  could  not  swallow  a  morsel, 
for  matrimony  takes  away  the  appetite  as  effectually  as  sea- 
sickness, he  had  dispatched  the  meek  little  housekeeper 
down  to  Tower  Cliffe  with  sundry  bundles  and  bandboxes, 
wherein  the  bride  was  to  be  arrayed,  and  it  was  with  a 
troubled  spirit  Mr.  Sweet  had  seen  her  depart.  .For  half 
an  hour  he  paced  up  and  down  in  a  perfect  agony  of  fever- 
ish impatience,  and  still  the  burden  of  his  thoughts   was, 


''->  i 


FOR  BREAD  RECEIVING  A  STONE.      219 


>.,  if 


what  if  after  all,  at  the  last  moment,  the  wilful,  wayward 
Barbara  should  draw  back.  No  one  could  ever  count  on 
that  impulsive  and  headstrong  young  lady  more  than  two 
minutes  at  a  time,  and  just  as  likely  as  not,  when  he  arrived 
at  the  cottage,  he  would  find  her  locked  in  her  room  and 
refusing  ail  entreaties  to  come  out ;  or  she  might  come 
out  with  a  vengeance,  and  with  two  or  three  sharp  sentences 
knock  all  his  beautiful  plans  remorselessly  on  the  head. 
So  the  lawyer  paced  up  and  down  with  a  more  anxious 
heart  than  any  other  happy  bridegroom  ever  had  on  his 
bridal  morning,  and  certainly  none  ever  had  a  more  exas- 
perating bride.  And  in  the  middle  of  a  dismal  train  of  re- 
flections about  finding  himself  dished,  the  clock  struck  nine, 
a  cab  drove  up  to  the  door,  and  he  jumped  in  and  was 
driven  through  the  town  and  down  to  Tower  ClifFe.  Ra- 
diant as  Mr.  Sweet  always  was,  he  had  never  been  seen  so 
intensely  radiant  as  on  this  particular  morning,  in  a  bran 
new  suit  of  lawyer-like  black,  a  brilliant  canary-colored  waist- 
coat, ditto  stock,  and  ditto  gloves,  and  nattily  stuck  in  his 
button-hole  appeared  a  bouquet  of  the  yellowest  possible 
primroses.  But  his  sallow  face  was  pale  with  excitement, 
and  his  eyes  gleamed  with  feverish  eagerness  as  he  entered 
the  cottage,  from  which  he  could  not  tell  whether  or  no  he 
was  to  bear  away  a  bride. 

But  he  might  have  spared  his  fears,  for  it  was  all  right. 
The  cottage  looked  neat  for  once,  for  the  little  housekeeper 
had  put  it  to  rights  ;  and  Mr.  Black  and  Judith  were  ar- 
rayed in  their  best,  and  neither  was  smoking,  and  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor  was  Barbara — ^the  bride.  Barbara  was 
not  looking  her  best,  as  brides  should  always  make  it  a 
point  of  conscience  to  do  ;  for  her  face  and  lips  were  a 
great  deal  too  colorless,  her  eyes,  surrounded  by  dark  cir- 
cles, telling  of  sleepless  nights  and  wof  ul  days,  looked  too 
large  and  hollow,  and  solemn  ;  but  stately  and  majestic 
she  must  always  look  and  she  looked  it  now — looked  as  a 
dethroned  and  imprisoned  queen  might  do  at  her  jailers. 
She  was  to  be  married  in  her  traveling-dress,  as  they 
started  immediately  after  the  ceremony  for  London  ;  and 
Mrv  Sweet  countermanded  the  order  for  the  wedding  break- 
fast, on  finding  there  would  be  nobody  but  himself  to  eat, 
it,  and  the  dress  was  of  silvery-gray  barege,  relieved  with 


220       THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CUFFE. 

knots  and  bows  of  mauve  ribbon,  a  pretty  mantle  of  silk  and 
lace,  and  a  straw  bonnet,  trimmed  also  with  mauve  and 
silver-gray.  The  toilet  was  simple  but  elegant,  and  if  Bar- 
bara did  not  look  one  half  so  brilliant  and  beautiful  in  it, 
as  she  had  done  a  fortnight  before  in  her  plain,  crimson 
merino,  it  was  her  fault,  and  not  Madame  Modiste's.  The 
housekeeper  was  just  fastening  the  last  little  kid  glove,  and 
Barbara  lifted  her  eyes  from  the  floor  on  which  they  had ' 
been  bent,  and  looked  at  him  out  of  their  solemn  dark 
depths  as  he  entered. 

"  Are  you  quite  ready  ?  "  he  nervously  asked. 

"*  Quite  ready,  sir,"  answered  the  housekeeper,  who  was 
to  accompany  them  to  church. 

"  The  carriage  is  at  the  door.     Come,  Barbara." 

She  would  not  see  his  proffered  arm,  yet  she  followed 
him  quietly  and  without  a  word,  and  let  him  hand  her  into 
the  carriage.  The  little  housekeeper  came  next,  and  then 
Mr.  Black,  who  had  enjoyed  the  unusual  blessings  of  shav- 
ing and  hair-cutting,  stumbled  up  the  steps,  looking  particu- 
larly sulky  and  uncomfortable  in  his  new  clothes  ;  and 
then  Mr.  Sweet  jumped  in,  too,  and  gave  the  order  to 
drive  to  the  cathedral.  It  was  a  weird  wedding-party,  with- 
out bridesmaids  or  blessings,  or  flowers  or  frippery;  and 
on  the  way  not  one  word  was  spoken  by  any  of  the  party. 
Barbara  sat  like  a  cold,  white  statue,  her  hands  lying  list- 
lessly in  her  lap,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor,  her  thoughts 
— where  ?  Mr.  Sweet's  heart  was  beating  in  feverish  and 
impatient  throbs,  and  his  breath  came  quick,  and  on  his 
sallow  cheeks  were  two  burning  spots  ;  in  his  serene  eyes 
shone  a  strange  fire,  and  his  yellow-gloved  hands  trembled 
so  that  he  had  to  grasp  the  window  to  keep  them  from 
seeing  it.  The  little  housekeeper  looked  frightened  and 
awe-struck  ;  and  Mr.  Black,  with  his  hands  stuck  very  deep 
in  his  coat  pockets,  was  scowling  desperately  on  them  all 
by  turns.  Fifteen  minutes'  ^ast  driving  brought  the  grim 
bridal-party  to  the  cathedral,  where  a  curious  crowd  was 
collected  ;  some  come  to  attend  morning  service  which 
was  then  going  on,  and  others  brought  there  by  the  rumors 
of  the  marriage.  The  lawyer  drew  his  bride's  arm  firmly 
within  his  own,  and  led  her  in  while  the  two  others  fol- 
lowed,  while   more    than    one    audible    comment    on   the 


FOR  BREAD  RECEIVING  A  STONE.        221 


strange  looks  of  Barbara  reached  his  ears  as  he  passed. 
The  cathedral  was  half  filled,  and  the  organ  poured  forth 
grand  swelling  notes  as  they  walked  up  the  aisle.  Behind  the 
rails,  in  stole  and  surplice,  and  book  in  hand  stood  one  of 
the  curates  ;  bride  and  bridegroom  placed  themselves  be- 
fore him,  and  the  bridegroom  could  hear  nothing,  not  even 
the  music,  for  the  loud  beating  of  his  heart.  Everybody 
held  their  breath,  and  leaned  forward  to  lock,  and : 

"  Who  gives  this  woman  to  be  married  to  this  man  ? " 
demanded  the  curate,  looking  curiously  at  the  strange  bride. 
And  Mr.  Black  stepped  forward  and  gave  her,  and  then  : 

"  Wilt  thou  take  this  woman  to  be  thy  wedded  wife  ?  "  de- 
manded the  curate  again. 

And  Mr.  Sweet  said,  "  I  will  I  "  in  a  voice  that  was  husky 
and  shook  ;  and  the  bride  said,  "  I  will,"  too,  clearly,  dis- 
tinctly, unfalteringly.  And  then  the  ring  was  on  her  finger, 
and  they  joined  hands,  and  the  curate  pronounced  them 
man  and  wife.  \ 

The  organ  that  had  been  silent  for  a  moment,  as  if  it, 
too,  had  stopped  to  listen,  now  broke  out  into  an  exultant 
strain,  and  the  voices  of  the  choristers  made  the  domed 
roof  ring.  The  names  of  the  married  pair  were  inserted  in 
the  register,  and  Mr.  Sweet  took  his  wife's  arm — his  wife's 
this  time — to  lead  her  down  the  aisle.  The  dark  eyes  were 
looking  straight  before  her,  with  a  fixed,  fierce,  yet  calm  in- 
tensity, and  as  they  neared  the  door  they  fell  on  something 
she  had  hardly  bargained  for.  Leaning  against  a  pillar, 
pale  and  haughty,  stood  Leicester  ClifFe,  who  had  arrived 
just  in  time  to  witness  the  charming  sight,  and  whose  blue 
eyes  met  those  of  the  bride  with  a  powerful  look.  The 
happy  bridegroom  saw  him  at  the  same  instant,  and  the 
two  burning  spots  deepened  on  his  cheek  bones,  and  the 
fire  in  his  eyes  took  a  defiant  and  triumphant  sparkle. 
There  had  been  a  galvanic  start  on  the  part  of  the  bride  ; 
but  he  held  her  arm,  tightly,  and  Mr.  Sweet,  with  a  smile 
on  his  lip,  bowed  low  to  him  as  he  passed,  and  Barbara's 
sweeping  skirts  brushed  him,  and  then  they  were  gone,  shut 
up  in  the  carriage,  and  driving  away  rapidly  to  catch  the 
next  London  train. 

Leicester  Cliffe  turned  slowly  from  the  cathedral,  mounted 
his  horse,  and  rode  to  Cliifewood.     There  he  had  his  dusty 


\.v 


222       THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CUFFE. 

traveling-dress  to  change,  his  breakfast  to  take,  and  a  great 
deal  to  hear  from  Sir  Roland,  who  was  full  of  news,  and 
whose  first  question  was,  if  he  knew  that  his  old  flame, 
pretty  little  Barbara,  had  married  that  oily  fellow.  Sweet. 
Then,  as  in  duty  bound,  he  had  to  ride  to  his  lady-love,  and 
report  the  successful  accomplishment  of  all  his  trusts  and 
charges,  and  spend  with  a  gay  party  there  the  remainder  of 
the  day.  It  was  on  that  eventful  day  the  engagement  was 
publicly  and  formally  announced,  and  all  the  kissing  and 
congratulating  Vivia  had  dreaded  so  much,  was  gone 
through  with,  to  her  great  discomposure ;  and  she  was  glad 
when  evening  came  to  leave  the  talking  crowd,  and  wander 
under  the  trees  alone  with  her  thoughts.  It  was  a  lovely 
night,  moonlit  and  starlit,  and  she  was  leaning  against  a 
tree,  looking  wistfully  up  at  the  far-off  sky,  thinking  of  the 
wedding  that  had  taken  place  that  day,  and  the  other  so 
soon  to  follow,  when  the  sound  of  a  horse  galloping  furiously 
up  the  avenue  made  her  look  round  and  behold  Tom  Shir- 
ley dashing  along  like  a  madman.  He  had  been  spending 
the  day  at  Lisleham  with  Lord  Henry  ;  and  Vivia  as  she 
watched  him  flying  along  so  fiercely,  began  to  think  the 
wine  at  dinner  had  been  a  little  too  strong. 

"  Why,  Tom  1  "  was  her  cry  ;  "  have  you  gone  crazy  ? " 

Tom  had  not  seen  her,  but  at  the  sound  of  her  voice  he 
checked  his  horse  so  sharply  and  suddenly  that  the  steed 
came  down  on  his  haunches  and  pawed  the  air  animatedly 
witl^  his  two  fore  legs. 

The  next  moment  his  rider  had  jumped  recklessly  to  the 
ground,  leaving  him  to  find  his  way  to  the  stables  himself, 
and  was  standing  beside  Vivia,  very  red  in  the  face,  and 
very  excited  in  the  eyes,  holding  both  her  hands  in  a  fierce 
clasp.  • 

"  Vic  1  Vic  !  it's  hot  true  1  it  can't  be  true  1  I  don't  be- 
lieve a  word  of  it  1  "  began  the  young  man  with  the  utmost 
incoherence.  "  Tell  me,  for  Heaven's  sake,  that  it's  all  a 
lie." 

"  The  wine  was  certainly  dreadfully  strong,"  thought 
Vic,  looking  at  him  in  terror,  and  trying  to  free  her  hands. 
But  Tom  only  held  them  the  tighter,  and  broke  out  again, 
more  hotly,  and  wildly,  and  vehemently,  than  before  : 

*-  You  shall  not  go,  Vic  '  you  shall  never  leave  me  again 


1 


M« 


FOR  BREAD  RECEIVING  A  STONE.       223 


until  you  have  heard  all.     Tell  me,  I    say,  that    it   is  not 
true." 

"  What  is  not  true  ?  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  you're  talk- 
ing about,  cousin  Tom  I  "  said  Vivia,  looking  round  her  in 
distress. 

In  spite  of  his  momentary  craziness,  Tom  saw  her  pale 
face  and  terrified  eyes,  and  became  aware  that  he  was 
crushing  the  little  hands  as  if  they  were  in  thumb-screws, 
and  relaxed  his  bear-like  grip  contritely. 

"  I  am  a  brute  !  "  said  Tom,  in  a  burst  of  penitence  hardly 
less  vehement  than  his  former  tone.  "  Poor  little  hands ! 
I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  them ;  but  you  know,  Vic,  what  a  fel- 
low I  am,  and  that  infernal  story  they  told  me  has  nearly 
driven  me  crazy.  I  am  a  savage,  I  know,  and  what  must 
you  think  of  me,  Vic  ?  " 

Vic  laughed,  but  yet  with  a  rather  pale  cheek. 

"  That  Lord  Lisle's  port  is  rather  strong,  and  you  have 
been  imbibing  more  than  is  good  for  you,  cousin  Tom." 

"  Oh,  she  thinks  I  am  drunk  1  "  said  Tom,  with  another 
burst,  this  time  with  indignation  ;  "  but  allow  me  tell  you. 
Miss  Shirley,  I  haven't  dined  at  all  I  Port,  indeed  I  Faith 
it  was  more  than  wine  that  has  got  into  my  head  to-night." 

There  was  a  cadence  so  bitter  in  his  tone  that  Vic  opened 
her  prelty  blue  eyes  very  wide,  and  looked  at  him  in  as- 
tonishment. Cousin  Vic  was  very  fond  of  cousin  Tom  ; 
and  she  never  felt  inclined  to  run  away  from  him,  as  she 
invariably  did  from  cousin  Leicester. 

"  Something  has  gone  wrong,  cousin  Tom,  and  you  are 
excited.     Come,  sit  down  here,  and  tell  me  what  it  is." 

There  was  a  rustic  bench  under  the  waving  chestnuts. 
Vic  sat  down,  spread  out  her  rosy  skirts,  and  made  room 
for  him  beside  her  ;  but  Tom  would  not  be  tempted  to  sit 
down  at  any  price,  and  burst  out  again  : 

"  It  is  just  this,  Vic  !  They  told  me  you  were  going  to  be 
married  ? " 

"The  bright  eyes  dropped,  and  the  pale  cheeks  took  the 
tint  of  the  reddest  rose  ever  was  seen. 

"  I  know  it  is  not  true  1     It  can't  be  true  !  "     ■ 

She  did  not  answer. 

"  Speak  I  "  exclaimed  Tom,  almost  fiercely  ;  "  speak  and 
tell  me  it  is  not  true  1  " 


224'      THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CUFFE. 

"  I  cannot  I  "  very  faintly. 

"  Mv  God  1 "  he  said  ;  "  you  can  never  mean  to  say  it  is 
true  I  '^ 

She  arose  suddenly,  and  looked  at  him,  a  cold  terror 
chilling  her  heart. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  asked.  "*• 

"  Vic,  is  it  true  ? " 

"  It  is  I  " 

"  You  are  going  to  be  married  to  Leicester  Cliflfe  ? " 

'*  I  am  1  " 

The  rosy  light  had  left  her  cheeks,  for  there  was  some- 
thing in  his  face  that  no  one  had  ever  seen  in  Tom  Shir- 
ley's face  before. 

"  Do  you  love  him  ?  " 

"Tom,  what  are  you  thinking  of,  to- ask  such  a  ques- 
tion ?  " 

"  Answer  it !  "  he  said,  savagely.  ^ 

"  I  will  Ic  '^  him  I  "  said  Vivia,  firmly,  and  Tom  broke 
out  into  a  bitter  jeering  laugh. 

"  Which  means  you  will  marry  him  now  because  he  is  an 
excellent  parti,  and  papa  and  grandmamma,  and  uncle 
Roland,  wish  it,  and  trust  to  the  love  to  come  afterward ! 
Vic  Shirley,  you  are  a  miserable,  heartless  coquette,  and  I 
despise  you ! " 

She  was  leaning  against  a  tree  ;  clinging  to  it  for  sup- 
port ;  her  whole  face  perfectly  colorless,  but  the  blue  eyes 
quailed  not  beneath  his  own. 

"  You  1 " — he  went  on,  in  passionate  scorn,  and  with  flam- 
ing eyes — "  you,  the  spotless,  immaculate  Victoria  Shirley. 
You  who  set  up  fo«r  an  angel,  and  made  common  mortals 
feel  unworthy  to  touch  the  hem  of  your  garment  I  You  the 
angel  on  earth  1  a  wretched,  cold-blooded,  perjured  girl  1 
Oh,  Lucifer  I  star  of  the  morning,  how  thou  art  fallen  !  " 

"  Tom,  what  have  I  ever  done  to  you  to  make  you  talk 
like  this  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing  1  only  sold  yourself  body  and  soul — a  mere 
trifle  not  worth  speaking  of." 

She  gave  him  a  look  full  of  sorrow  and  reproach,  and 
turned  with  quiet  dignity  to  go  away. 

"  Stay  !  "  he  half  shouted,  "  and  tell  me  for  what  end  you 
have  been  fooling  me  all  these  months."      ,    . 

i 


FOR  BRKAD  RHCI^IVING  A  STONK.       225 

"  I  do  not  understand.'* 

"  Poor  child  I  Its  little  head  never  was  made  to  untangle 
such  knotty  problems.  Will  you  understand  if  1  ask  you 
why  you've  led  me  on,  like  a  blind  fool,  to  love  you  ? " 

"  Tom  ? " 

"  You  never  thought  of  it  before,  of  course ;  but  you  have 
done  it,  and  1  love  you.  And  now,  before  you  stir  a  step, 
you  shall  tell  me  whether  or  not  it  is  returned.'' 

"  I  do  love  you,  Tom — I  always  have — as  dearly  as  if 
you  were  my  brother." 

"  I'm  exceedingly  obliged  to  you  ;  but,  as  it  happens,  I 
don't  want  your  brotherly  love,  and  I  shall  take  the  first  op- 
portunity of  sending  a  bullet  through  Mr.  Leicester  Cliffe's 
head.  I  have  the  honor.  Miss  Shirley,  to  bid  you  good 
night." 

"  Tom,  stay  I     Tom,  for  God's  sake " 

And  here  the  voice  broke  down,  and  covering  her  face 
with  both  hands,  she  burst  into  a  hysterical  passion  of  weep- 
ing. Tom  turned,  and  the  great  grieved  giant  heart,  so 
fiery  in  its  wrath,  melted  like  a  boy's  at  sight  of  her  tears. 
He  could  have  cried  himself,  but  for  shame,  as  he  flung 
himself  down  on  the  bench  with  a  sobbing  groan. 

"  Oh,  Vic  1  how  could  you  lo  it }  How  could  you  treat 
me  so  ? " 

She  came  over,  and  kneeling  beside  him,  put  one  arm 
around  his  neck,  as  if,  indeed,  he  had  been  the  dear 
brother  she  thought  him. 

"  Oh,  Tom,  I  never  meant  it — I  never  meant  it  I  " 

"  And  you  will  marry  Leicester  ?  *' 

"  You  know  I  must,  Tom ;  but  you  will  be  my  dear 
brother   always." 

He  turned  away  and  dropped  his  head  on  his  arm. 

"  You  know  it  is  my  duty,  Tom.  And,  oh,  you  must  not 
think  such  dreadful  things  of  me  any  more  I  If  you  do,  I 
shall  die  I  " 

"  Go  1  "*he  said,  lifting  his  head  for  a  moment  and  then 
dropping  it  again.  "  Go  and  leave  me  1  I  know,  Vic,  you 
are  an  angel,  and  I — I  am  nothing  but  a  miserable  fool  1 " 

And  with  the  words  the  boy's  heart  went  out  from;  Tom 
Shirley,  and  never  came  back  any  more. 


226       THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CI^IFFE- 


CHAPTER  XXITI. 


victoria's  bridal  eve. 


In  the  bluest  of  summer  skies,  heralded  by  the  rosiest 
banners  of  cloud,  rose  up  the  sun  on  Victoria  Shirley's 
wedding-day. 

The  rose-gardens  around  Castle  Cliffe  were  in  full  bloom, 
the  bees  and  butterflies  held  grand  carnivals  there  all  the 
long  sultry  days,  and  the  air  was  heavy  with  their  burden  of 
perfume.  The  chestnuts,  tlie  oaks,  the  poplars,  the  beeches 
were  out  in  their  greenest  garments  ;  the  swans  floated 
about  serenely  in  their  lakes ;  the  Swiss  farmhouse  was 
radiant  in  the  glory  of  new  paint ;  and  the  Italian  cottage 
was  lost  in  a  wilderness  of  scented  creepers.  The  peacocks 
and  gazelles,  the  deer  and  the  dogs,  had  fine  times  in  the 
June  sunshine  ;  and  over  all,  the  banner  floated  out  from  the 
flag-tower,  and  everybody  knew  that  it  was  the  bridal-day  of 
the  heiress  of  Castle  Cliffe. 

And  within  the  mansion  wonderful  were  the  preparations. 
At  nine  in  the  evening  the  ceremony  was  to  take  place,  and 
Lady  Agnes  had  resolved  and  announced,  that  a  grand  ball 
should  follow  ;  and  at  twelve  the  next  day,  they  were  to  step 
into  the  cars  and  bid  good-by  to  Cliftonlea  for  two  long 
years.  A  whole  regiment  of  Gunther's  men  had  come  down 
from  London  to  attend  to  the  ^upper,  which  was  to  be  the 
greatest  miracle  of  cookery  of  modern  times ;  and  another 
regiment  of  young  persons  in  the  dressmakirig  department 
filled  the  dressing-ioom  up-stairs.  Invitations  had  been  sent 
to  half  the  county,  besides  ever  so  many  in  London — so  many, 
in  fact,  that  the  railway  trains  had  tl  eir  first-class  coup'es 
crowded  all  day,  and  their  proprietors  realized  a  small  fortune. 
The  gi^^nds  were  all  to  be  illuminated  with  colored  lamps, 
hung  iti  all  sorts  of  fanciful  devices.  And  there  was  to  be 
such  a  feast  there  for  the  tenantry,  with  music  and  dancing 


VICTORIA'S  BRIDAI,  EVK. 


227 


afterward,  and  such  a  display  of  fireworks,  and  such  a  lot  of 
bonfires,  and  such  ringing  of  bells  and  beating  of  drums,  and 
shouting  and  cheering,  ana  general  joy,  as  had  never  been 
seen  or  heard  of  before.  Lady  Agnes  declared  herself  dis- 
tracted and  nearly  at  death's  door,  although  Mr.  Sweet,  who 
had  come  back  from  his  short  wedding  tour,  helped  her  as 
much  as  he  could,  and  proved  himself  perfectly  invaluable. 
And  in  the  midst  of  it  all,  the  bridegroom  spent  his  time  in 
riding  over  the  sunny  Sussex  downs,  lounging  lazily  through 
the  rooms  at  Cliftonlea,  and  smoking  unheard-of  quantities 
of  cigars.  And  the  bride,  shut  up  with  Lady  Agnes  and  the 
dressmakers,  in  the  former's  room,  was  hardly  ever  seen  by 
anybody — least  of  all  by  her  intended  husband.  But  the 
wedding-day  came,  and  all  the  snoAvy  gear  in  which  she  was 
to  be  tricked  out  lay  on  the  bed  in  the  rose  room — gloves 
and  slippers,  and  veil,  and  wreath,  and  dress  ;  and  the  inlaid 
tables  were  strewn  with  magnificent  presents,  every  one  of 
them  a  small  fortune  in  itself,  to  be  publicly  displayed  that 
evening.  And  Vivia,  who  had  been  shut  up  all  day  with  the 
seamstresses,  a  good  two  hours  before  it  was  time  to  dress, 
had  broken  from  her  captors  and  turned  to  leave  the  room. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  child } "  asked  Lady  Agnes. 
"There  is  the  dressing-bell  ringing." 

"  I  don't  care  for  the  dressing-bell.  I'm  not  going  down 
to  dinner!  " 

"  Where  are  you  going,  then  ?  " 

"  Through  the  house — the  dear  old  house — to  say  good-by 
to  it  before  I  go  !  There  will  be  no  time  to-morrow,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"  I  should  think  not,  indeed,  since  we  start  at  noon  !  I 
suppose  you  expect  the  house  will  say  good-by  to  you  in 
return  ? " 

"  I  shall  think  it  does,  at  all  events.  I  wish  we  were  not 
going  away  at  all." 

"  Of  course  you  do  1  I  never  knew  you  wishing  for  any- 
thing but  what  was  absurd  1  You  must  have,  dinner  in  your 
own  room,  and  remember  you  are  not  late  to  dress  for  your 
wedding !     It  would  be  just  like  you  to  do  it !  " 

Lady  Agnes  sailed  past  majestically  to  make  her  own  toilet, 
and  Vivia,  with  a  fluttering  little  heart  yet  happy  while  she 
trembled,  went  from  room  to  room  to  take  a  last  look.     She 


I 


r 


228       THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CUFFE. 

had  nearly  finished  the  circuit,  even  to  the  dreadful  Queen's  .. 
Room,  and  was  standing  in  the  picture-gallery,  looking  wist- 
fully at  the  haunted  faces  of  all  her  dead  ancestors,  when 
some  one  came  wearily  up  the  stairs,  and  turning,  she  saw 
Margaret  Shirley.  If  others  had  been  changing  within  the 
last  few  weeks,  so  had  Margaret;  always  pale  and  thin,  she 
moved  about  like  a  colorless  ghost  now ;  her  black  eyes,  the 
only  beauty  she  had  ever  possessed,  sunken  and  hollow ;  and 
the  deep  lines  about  the  mouth  and  forehead  told  their"  own 
story  of  silent  suffering.  She  shunned  everybody,  and  most 
of  all,  her  bright  and  beautiful  cousin  Victoria,  and,  seeing 
her  now  standing  radiant  and  refulgent  in  the  amber  haze  of 
the  sunset,  she  stopped,  and  made  a  motion  as  if  to  retreat. 
But  the  cleaT,  sweet  voice  called  her  back  : 

"  Don't  go.  Marguerite ;  I  want  you.     Come  here !  " 
Margaret  came   to   the   head   of   the   stairs    and    there 
stopped. 

"  I  have  been  wanting  to  see  you  all  the  week,  but  I  could 
not  get  near  you.     Why  do  you  keep  away  from  me  ? " 
"  I  do  not  keep  away  !  " 

"  You  know  you  do !     Why  are  you  not  cordial  as  you 
used  to  be  ? " 

"I  am  cordial!  "  still  hovering  aloof. 
"  Come  nearer,  then  1  " 

Again  Margaret  moved  a  step  or  two,  and  again  stopped. 
"  We   onght   to  be    friends.   Marguerite,  since    we    are 
-  cousins !     But  we  have  not  been  friends  this  long  time  !  " 
'  No  answer.     Marguerite's  eyes  were  on  the  floor,  and  her 
face  looked  petrified.  '^%e 

"You  are  to  be  one  of  my  bridesmaids,  and  my  travel-  w 
ing  companion  for  the  next  two  years  ;  and  all  that  proves  ^ 
that  we  ought  to  be  friends."  ^ 

"  You  mistake,  cousin  Victoria ;  I  am  not  going  to  be 
your  traveling  companion  !  "  .^   . 

"  No !     Grandmamma  said  so  1 "  ^       -^ 

"  Probably  she  thinks  so  I  "  ^: 

*'  You  are  jesting,  Maguerite  I  "  ... 

"Nol  "  '    '_  ■'*"■      J 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  What  are  you  going  to  do  ? " 
**  Excuse  me  ;  you  will  learn  that  at  the  proper  time  1  " 
Vivia  looked  at  her  earnestly.     An  intelligent  light  was  in 


'  J 


VICTORIA'S  BRIDAL  EVE. 


229 


her  eye,  and  a  scarlet  effusion   rising  hot  to  her  face,  and 
rapidly  fading  out. 

•' You  are  unhappy  !"  •  V 

"Am  I?"  '      - 

"Yis;  and  I  know  the  reason !  " 

Th(*  black  eyes  were  raised  from  the  floor  and  fixed  quietly 
on  her  face. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  what  it  is  ?  "  ' ' 

"  As  you  like  !  " 

Vivia  leaned  forward,  and  would  have  laid  her  hand  on 
the  other's  shoulder,  but  Marguerite  recoiled,  with  a  look  on 
her  face  that  reminded  her  cousin  of  Barbara.  She  drew 
back  proudly  and  a  little  coldly. 

"  You  have  no  right  to  be  angry  with  me,  cousin  Mar- 
guerite 1  Whatever  I  have  done  has  been  in  obedience  to 
grandmamma's  commands.  If  by  it  you  are  unhappy,  it  is  no 
fault  of  mine  !  " 

The  black  eyes  were  still  looking  at  her  quietly,  and  over 
the  dark,  grave  face  there  dawned  a  smile  sad  and  scornful, 
that  said  as  plainly  as  words,  "  She  talks,  and  knows  not 
what  she  is  talking  about !  "  but  before  she  could  speak. 
Mademoiselle  Jeannette  came  tripping  up-stairs. 

"  Mademoiselle  Genevieve,  I've  been  searching  for  you  all 
over.  My  lady  says  you  are  to  go  directly  and  take  your 
dinner ! " 

Margaret  had  vanished  like  ?.  spirit  at  the  appearance  of 
the  maid ;  so  Mademoiselle  Genevieve,  with  a  little  sigh, 
followed  her  cousin  to  her  boudoir,  where  the  slender  meal 
was  placed.  There  was  a  little  Sevres  cup  of  coffee ;  a 
petite  verre  of  sparkling  champagne,  p&tk  d  la  crime,  and  an 
omelet ;  and  Vivia  ate  the  paste,  and  tasted  the  omelet, 
and  drank  the  coffee  and  wine  with  a  very  good  appetite ; 
and  had  only  just  finished  when  Lady  Agnes  came  in,  and 
announced  that  it  was  time  to  dress.  After  her  came  half  a 
dozen  bridesmaids,  cousin  Margaret  among  the  rest,  and 
they  were  all  marshaled  into  Lady  Agnes'  dressing-room,  and 
handed  over  to  a  certain  French  art)3t,  who  had  come  all  the 
way  from  London  to  dress  their  hair.  Vivia 's  beautiful 
\  tresses  required  least  time  of  all,  for  they  were  to  be  simply 
worn  in  flowing  curls,  according  to  her  jaunty  custom  ;  but 
most  of  the  other  damsels  had  to  be  braided,  and  banded, 
and  scented,  and  "  done  up  "  in  the  latest  style.     This  im- 


I    t 


n 


230      THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CUEFE. 

portant  piece  of  business  took  a  long  time,  and  when  it  was 
over,  monsieur  withdrew.  The  femmes  de  chambre  flocked 
in  ;  and  Vivia,  under  the  hands  of  Jeannette  and  Hortense, 
went  to  her  own  room  to  be  dressed.  Lady  Agnes  followed, 
looking  as  if  she  had  something  on  her  mind. 

"  There  is  no  time  to  lose  I  "  she  said  to  the  maids.  "  You 
will  have  to  make  your  young  lady's  toilet  as  fast  as  you  can  ; 
and  Victoria,  child,  don't  look  so  pale  !  A  little  paleness  is 
eminently  proptr  in  a  bride  ;  but  I  want  you  to  look  ever  so 
pretty  to-night !  " 

"  I  shall  try  to,  grandmamma !  What  are  all  the  people 
about  down  stairs  ?  " 

"  They  are  all  dressing,  of  course !  and  it  is  time  I  was 
following  their  example,"  glancing  at  her  watch. 

"  Grandmamma,"  said  Vivia,  struck  with  a  little  cloud  on 
that  lady's  serene  brow,  "  you  have  been  annoyed.  What  is 
it  ?  " 

**  It  is  nothing — ^that  is,  nothing  but  a  trifle  ;  and  all  about 
that  absurd  boy,  Tom  I  "       . 

Vivia  started  suddenly,  and  caught  her  breath.  Since  the 
night  under  the  chestnuts  she  had  not  seen  Tom — no  one 
had ;  and  it  was  a  daily  subject  of  wonder  and  inquiry. 

'*  Grandmamma,  has  anything  happened  to  him  ?  " 

"  Nothing  that  I  am  aware  of — certainly  nothing  to  make 
you  wear  such  a  frightened  face.  But  what  will  you  think 
when  I  tell  you  he  is  in  Cliftonlea  and  never  comes  here  ? 
It  is  the  most  annoying  and  absurd  thing  I  ever  heard  of, 
and  everybody  talks  about  it  1  "  ^ 

"  How  do  you  know  he  is  in  Cliftonlea  ?  " 

"  Your  papa  saw  him  last  night.  He,  and  Captain  Doug- 
las, and  some  more  of  the  gentlemen  had  been  out  at  the 

meet  of  the  Duke  of  B 's  hounds ;  and,    riding  home 

about  dark,  they  saw  him  down  there  near  the  beech  woods. 
They  called  to  lim,  but  he  disappeared  among  the  trees,  and 
the  people  here  have  done  nothing  but  talk  of  it  all  day  long. 
Rogers,  the  gamekeeper,  says  he  has  seen  him  haunting  the 
place  in  the  strangest  manner  for  the  last  few  days,  as  if  he 
was  afraid  to  be  seen." 

The  paleness  with  w^hich  the  speaker  had  found  fault 
deepened  as  Vivia  listened,  and  her  heart  seemed  to  stand 
still. 


VICTORIA'S  BRIDAIy  KVE. 


231 


was 
:ked 

nse, 
ved, 


>S  IS 

so 
pie 


"  It  is  the  most  unaccountable  thing  I  ever  heard  of ;  and 
I  never  saw  your  papa  so  vexed  about  a  trifle  as  he  is  about 
this.     I  cannot  understand  it  at  all." 

But  her  granddaughter  could ;  and  she  averted  her  face 
that  grandmamma's  sharp  eyes  might  not  read  the  tale  it 
told.  The  eagle  eyes  saw,  however,  and  her  arm  was  sud- 
denly grasped. 

"  Victoria,  you  can  read  the  riddle.  I  see  it  in  your  eyes. 
When  did  you  meet  Tom  last  ?  " 

No  answer. 

"  Speak !  "  said  the  lady,  low  but  imperiously.  "  When 
was  it  ? " 

"  Last  Monday  night." 

"  Where  ?  " 

"Out  under  the  chestnuts." 

"  What  did  he  say  to  you  ?  " 

"  Grandmamma,  don't  ask  me  !  " 

And  the  pale  cheek  turned  scarlet. 

Lady  Agnes  looked  at  her  a  moment  with  her  cold  and 
piercing  eyes,  and  then  dropped  her  arm. 

"  I  see  it  all,"  she  said,  a  haughty  flush  dyeing  her  own 
delicate  cheek.  "  He  has  been  making  a  fool  of  himself, 
and  has  got  what  he  deserved.  He  is  wise  to  stay  away  ;  if 
he  comes  within  reach  of  me,  he  will  probably  hear  some- 
thing more  to  the  point  than  he  heard  under  the  chestnuts ! 
When  I  am  dressed  I  will  come  back." 

The  thin  lips  were  compressed.  The  proud  eyes  flashed 
blue  flame  as  Lady  Agnes  swept  out  of  the  rose-room.  If 
looks  were  lightning,  and  Tom  Shirley  near  enough,  he 
would  certainly  never  make  love. to  any  one  else  on  earth  ! 

But  Vivia's  face  had  changed  sadly,  and  she  stood  under 
the  hands  of  the  two  maids  all  unconscious  of  their  doings 
and  their  presence,  and  thinking  only  of  him.  She  thought 
of  a  thousand  other  things,  too — things  almost  forgotten. 
Her  whole  life  seemed  to  pass  like  a  panorama  before  her. 
She  thought  dimly,  as  we  think  of  a  confused  dream,  of  a 
poor  home,  and  a  little  playmate  that  had  been  hers  long, 
long  ago  ;  then  of  the  quiet  content  in  her  dear  France, 
•where  year  after  year  passed  so  serenely ;  of  the  pleasant 
chateau,  where  her  holidays  were  spent ;  o'  Claude  who  had 
been  almost  as  dear  to  her  as  Tom,  and  whose  life  she  had 


232       THK  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CUFFE. 

embittered  like  his ;  of  the  first  visit  to  England  and  to  this 
beloved  home,  where  she  had  met  this  stately  grandmamma 
and  idolized  father ;  and  then,  more  vividly  than  all  the  rest, 
came  back  the  first  meeting  with  Barbara  Black.  Again 
she  was  kneeling  in  the  Demon's  Tower  with  Margaret 
crouching  in  a  corner,  her  black  eyes  shining  like  stars  in 
the  gloom — Tom  at  her  feet,  bleeding  and  helpless;  the 
raging  sea  upon  them  in  its  might ;  the  black  night  sky ;  the 
wailing  wind  and  lashing  rain,  and  a  little  figure  in  a  frail 
skiff  flying  over  the  billows  to  save  them.  They  had  been 
so  good  to  her,  and  had  loved  her  so  well — Barbara  and 
Margaret ;  but,  somehow,  she  had  alienated  them  all,  and 
they  loved  her  no  longer.  What  was  it  that  was  wanting  in 
her  ?  what  was  this  string  out  of  tune  that  had  made  the  dis- 
cord ?  Was  she  only  a  sounding  brass  and  tinkling  cymbal, 
and  was  the  real  germ  of  good  wanting  in  her  after  all  ? 
Vivia's  blue  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  but  she  could  not  find 
the  jarring  chords  ;  and  now  all  that  was  past,  and  a  new 
day  was  dawning  for  her.  Her  whole  life  was  changed,  but 
the  dark  veil  of  Futurity  was  down,  and  it  was  well  for  her 
she  could  not  see  what  was  beyond  it. 

And.  while  Vivia  sighed  and  mused  the  handmaidens 
were  going  on  with  their  work,  and  the  moments  were  flying 
fast.  The  wreath  and  veil  were  on  ;  the  diamond  necklace 
and  bracelets  clasped  ;  the  last  ribbon  and  fold  of  lace  ar- 
ranged, and  the  door  was  opened,  and  Lady  Agnes,  in  velvet 
and  jewels,  looking  still  youthful  and  unmistakably  fair,  re- 
appeared. At  her  coming,  Vivia  awoke  from  her  dream. 
She  had  something  to  do  besides  dream  now. 

"  Ah !  you  have  finished  I  "  was  my  lady's  cry.  "  Turn 
round,  Victoria,  and  let  me  see  you !  " 

Victoria,  who  had  not  once  seen  herself,  turned  round 
with  a  bright  face. 

"  Will  I  do,  grandmamma  ?  " 

"  It  is  charming  I  It  is  superb !  It  is  lovely  1  "  said 
Lady  Agnes,  in  a  sort  of  rapture.  "  My  child,  you  never 
looked  so  beautiful  before  in  your  life  !  " 

Hearing  this,  Vivia  turned  to  look  for  herself,  and  a  radiant 
glow  came  to  her  face  at  the  sight.  Lovely  she  must  have 
looked  in  anything.  Dazzling  she  appeared  in  her  bridal 
dress.     The  dress  itself  was  superb.     It  had  been  imported 


VICTORIA'S  BRIDAI.  EVK. 


233 


"  \ 


from  Paris,  and  had  cost  a  fortune.  It  was  of  rich  white 
velvet,  the  heavy  skirts  looped  with  clusters  of  creamy-white 
roses,  the  corsage  and  sleeves  embroidered  with  seed-pearls, 
and  a  bouquet  of  jessamine  flowers  on  the  breast.  The 
arching  throat,  the  large  and  exquisitely-molded  arms  were 
clasped  with  diamonds  that  streamed  like  rivers  of  light ; 
the  sunny  curls  showered  to  the  small  waist  crowned  with  a 
wreath  of  jeweled  orange-blossoms  sparkling  with  diamond 
dew-drops ;  and  over  all,  and  sweeping  the  carpet,  a  bridal 
veil,  encircling  the  shining  figure  like  a  cloud  of  mist.  But 
the  lovely  head,  the  perfect  face  drooping  in  its  exquisite 
modesty,  and  blushing  and  smiling  at  its  own  beauty,  neither 
lace,  nor  velvets,  nor  jewels  were  aught  compared  to  that. 

"My  darling !"  cried  Lady  Agnes,  in  an  ecstasy  very, 
very  uncommon  with  her,  "  you  look  like  an  angel  to- 
night 1 " 

"  Dear,  dear  grandmamma,  I  care  for  nothing  if  I  only 
please  you.     Are  the  rest  all  ready  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  been  to  see,  but  I  am  going.  Do  you  know," 
lowering  her  voice,  "  a  most  singular  thing  has  occurred." 

"What?" 

"  It  is  only  half  an  hour  to  the  time  appointed  for  the 
ceremony,  the  drawing-room  is  filled,  everybody  is  there,  but 
the  one  that  should  be  there  most  of  all." 

"Who's  that?" 

"  There's  a  question  I     Leicester  Cliffe,  of  course." 

"  Has  he  not  come,  then  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed ;  and  when  he  does  come,  he  shall  be  taken 
most  severely  to  task  for  this  delay.  The  man  who  would 
keep  such  a  bride  waiting,  deserves — deserves — the  basti- 
nado !  No,  that  v/ould  be  too  good  for  him ;  deserves  to 
lose  her." 

Vivia  laughed. 

"  Oh,  grandmamma,  that  would  be  too  bfri.  Has  Uncle 
Roland  come  ? " 

"  Uncle  Roland  has  been  here  fully  an  hour,  and  knows 
nothing  about  the  matter.  It  appears  the  young  gentleman 
has  been  out  riding  all  day,  and  never  made  his  appearance 
until  dinner,  when  he  drank  more  wine  than  is  usual  or 
prudent  with  bridegrooms,  and  behaved  himself  in  a  manner 
that  was  very  strange  altogether." 


I 


234       THE  HKlRESvS  OF  CASTLK  CI.IFFK. 

"What  did  he  do?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know ;  he  was  queer  and  excited,  Sir  Roland 
says ;  but  he  thought  little  of  that,  cohsidering  the  circum- 
stances. He  has  seen  nothing  of  him  since,  and  came  here 
in  the  full  expectation  of  seeing  him  here  before  him." 

"  Well,  grandmamma,  he  will  be  here  before  the  end  of 
the  half-hour,  I  suppose,  and  that  will  do,  won't  it  ?  " 

"  It  will  do  for  the  wedding,  but  it  won't  save  him  from  a 
severe  Caudle  lecture  from  me — a  sort  of  foretaste  of  what 
he  may  expect  of  you  in  the  future.  Everything  seems  to 
be  going  wrong,  and  I  feel  as  if  it  would  be  the  greatest 
relief  to  box  somebody's  ears." 

Lady  Agnes  looked  it,  nnd  Vivia  laughed  again. 

"  You  might  box  mine,  grandmamma,  and  relieve  your 
feelings,  only  it  would  spoil  my  veil,  and  Jeannette  would 
never  forgive  you  for  that." 

But  I^ady  Agnes  was  knitting  her  brows,  and  not  paying 
the  least  attention  to  her. 

"  To  think  he  should  be  late  on  such  an  occasion  i  it  is 
unheard  of — it  is  outrageous  1  " 

"  Oh,  grandmamma,  don't  worry.  I  am  §ure  he  cannot 
help  it ;  perhaps,  he  is  come  now." 

"  Here  come  your  bridemaids,  at  all  events,"  said  Lady 
Agnes,  as  the  communicating  door  opened,  and  the  bevy  of 
gay  girls  floated  in,  robed  in  white,  and  crowned  with 
flowers,  and  gathered  round  the  bride  like  butterflies  round 
a  rose,  and • 

"  Oh,  how  charming !  Oh,  how  lovely  !  Oh,  how  beau- 
tiful I  "  was  the  universal  cry.  "  You  are  looking  your  very 
best  to-night,  Victoria." 

"  So  she  ought,  and  so  will  you  all,  young  ladies,  on  your 
wedding  night,"  said  Lady  Agnes. 

"  Is  it  time  to  go  down  ?  has  everybody  come  ?  "  inquired 
one. 

''  It  is  certainly  time  to  go  down,  but  I  do  not  know 
whether  anybody  has  come.  Hark  1  is  not  that  your  papa's 
vofce  in  the  hall,  Victoria  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Do  let  him  come  in,  grandmamma.  I  know  he 
would  like  to  see  me  before  going  down-stairs." 

Lady  Agnes  opened  the  door,  and  saAv  her  son  coming 
rapidly  through  the  hall,  looking  very  pale  and  stern. 


VICTORIA'S  BRIDAI,  EVE). 


2f  r» 


of 


IS 


"  Has  Leicester  come  yet  ?  " 

"No!"  '•:  . 

•'  Good  Heavens  !     And  it  is  nine  o'clock !  " 

"  Exactly.  And  all  those  people  below  are  gathered  in 
groups,  and  whispering  mysteriously.  By  Heavens  1  I  feel 
tempted  to  put  a  bullet  through  his  head  when  he  does 
come." 

"  Oh,  Cliffe  !  something  has  happened  I  " 

'*  Perhaps — iy  the  bride  ready  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  come  in,  she  wishes  to  see  you — the  bride  is 
ready  ;  but  where  is  the  bridegroom  ?  " 

"  Where,  indeed  ?  But  don't  alarm  yourself  yet ;  he  may 
come  after  all." 

He  followed  his  mother  into  the  bride's  maiden  bower, 
and  that  dazzling  young  lady  came  forward  with  a  radiant 
face. 

"  Papa,  how  do  I  look  ?  " 

''  Don  t  ask  me ;  look  in  the  glass.  You  are  all  angels, 
every  one  of  you." 

He  touched  his  lips  to  the  pretty  brow,  and  tried  to  laugh, 
but  it  was  a  failure  I  and  then,  nervous  as  a  girl,  ^for  the 
first  time  in  his  life,  with  anxiety,  he  hurried  out  and  down- 
stairs, to  see  if  the  truant  had  come. 

No,  he  had  not  come.  The  bonfires  were  blazing,  the 
joy-bells  were  ringing,  the  park  was  one  blaze  of  rainbow- 
light,  all  the  clocks  in  the  town  were  striking  nine,  and  Lei- 
cester Cliffe  had  not  come.  Sir  Roland,  nearly  beside  him- 
self with  mortification  and  rage,  was  striding  up  and  down 
the  hall. 

"Is  she  ready?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  colonel,  using  the  words  of  his  mother, 
"  the  bride  is  ready  and  waiting,  but  where  the  devil  is  t v: 
bridegroom  ? " 


>3 

is 


■•s* 


236      THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CUFFE. 


■  V  ■  .  . 


1 

i'l 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

WHERE    THE    BRIDEGROOM    VAS. 

The  waning  sunlight  of  Vivia's  bridal-day,  streaming 
through  the  rather  dirty  windows  of  Peter  Black's  cottage, 
fell  on  Mr.  Silvester  Sweet,  sitting  beside  the  hearth,  and' 
talking  very  earnestly  indeed.  His  only  listener  was  old 
Judith,  who  had  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  was 
moaning  and  crying,  and  rocking  to  and  fro. 

"  My  dear  Judith — my  good  Judith  1 "  he  was  soothingly 
saying,  "  don't  distress  yourself ;  there  is  no  occasion — not 
the  least  in  the  world  1  " 

But  his  good  Judith  was  not  to  be  comforted  ;  she  only 
lifted  up  her  voice  and  wept  the  louder. 

"  You  knew  all  along  it  must  come  to  this ;  or  if  you 
didn't,  you  ought  to  have  known  it.  Such  guilty  secrets 
cannot  be  kept  forever  I " 

"  And  they  will  put  me  in  prison  ;  they  will  transport  me  ; 
may  be  they  will  hang  me  1  Oh,  I  wish  I  was  dead !  I 
wish  I  was  dead  1  "  wailed  the  old  woman,  rocking  to  that 
extent  that  there  seemed  some  danger  of  her  rocking  off  her 
stool. 

"  Nonsense  1  They  will  neither  put  you  in  prison,  trans- 
port, nor  hang  you.  Though,"  added  Mr.  Sweet,  politely, 
"  you  know  you  deserve  it  all." 

"  And  then  there's  Barbara  I  "  cried  old  Judith,  paying 
no  attention  whatever  to  him,  and  breaking  out  into  a  frtsh 
burst  of  wailing.  "  She'll  kill  me.  I  know  she  will.  She 
always  was  fierce  and  savage ;  and  when  she  hears  this — 
Oh,  dear  me  I  I  wish  I  was  dead — I  do  1 " 

"Yes;  but,  my  dear  old  soull  we  can't  spare  you  yet 
awhile.  Now,  dry  up  your  tears  and  be  reasonable ;  now 
do.     Remember,  if  all  doesn't  go  well,  I'll  hang  your  son  1  ** 


WHERE  THE  BRIDEGROOM  WAS.         237 


f  ■  ' 


"  Oh,  I  don't  expect  anything  but  that  we'll  all  hang  to- 
gether I  Oh,  I  wish  I  was  dead  I  "  reiterated  Judith,  de- 
termined to  stick  to  that  to  the  last. 

"  I'll  soon  gratify  that  wish,  you  old  Jezebel !  "  said  Mr. 
Sweet,  setting  his  teeth,  "  if  you  don't  stop  your  whimper- 
ing. What  did  you  do  it  for,  if  you  are  such  a  coward 
about  it  now  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  expect  it  would  ever  be  found  out.  Oh  1  I 
"wish — " 

Exasperatad  beyond  endurance,  her  companion  seized  the 
tongs ;  and  old  Judith,  with  a  shrill  shriek,  cowered  back 
and  held  out  her  arms  in  terror. 

"  Be  still,  then,  or  by "  (Mr.  Sweet  swore  a  frightful 

oath,  that  would  have  done  honor  to  Mr.  Black  himself) 
**  I'll  smash  your  head  for  you  I  Stop  your  whining  and 
hear  to  reason.  Are  you  prepared  to  take  your  oath  con- 
cerning the  story  I  have  to  tell } " 

Again  Judith  took  to  rocking  and  wringing  her  hands. 

"  I  must — I  must — I  must !  and  I  will  be  killed  for  it,  I 
know  1  "  ^. 

"  You  won't,  I  tell  you.  Neither  you  nor  your  son  will 
come  to  harm.  I'll  see  to  that  1  But  mind,  if  you  don't 
swear  to  everything,  straight  and  true,  I'll  have  both  of  you 
hanging,  by  the  end  of  the  month,  as  high  as  Haman  I  " 

Judith  set  up  such  a  howl  of  despair  at  this  pleasant  in- 
timation that  the  lawyer  had  to  grasp  the  tongs  again,  and 
brandish  them  within  half  an  inch  of  her  nose,  before  she 
would  consent  to  subside. 

"  My  worthy  old  lady,  I'll  knock  your  brains  out  if  you 
try  that  again ;  and  so  I  give  you  notice  1  You  have  only 
to  swear  to  the  facts  before  Colonel  Shirley,  or  any  other 
person  or  persons  concerned,  and  you  will  be  all  right! 
Stick  to  the  truth,  through  thick  and  thin  ;  there's  nothing 
like  it,  and  I'll  protect  you  through  it  all." 

Judith's  only  answer  was  to  rock  and  whine,  and  whimper 
dismally. 

"  You  know,"  said  Mr.  Sweet,  looking  at  her  steadily, 
"  you  had  no  advisers,  no  accomplices.  You  plotted  the 
whole  thing,  and  carried  it  out  alone.     Didn't  you  ? " 

"Yes;  I  did— I  did!" 

"  Yoif  had   the  very  natural  desire  to  benefit  your  own 


238       THE  HEIRESS  OF  CAvSTI^E  CI.IFFE. 


flesh  and  blood,  and  you  thought  it  would  never  be  found 
out.  Your  daughter-in-law  went  crazy,  was  sent  to  a  lunatic 
asylum,  and  you  told  your  son,  on  his  return  from — no 
matter  where — that  she  was  dead.     Didn't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes  1     Oh,  dear  me,  yes  1  " 

"  Some  things  that  you  dropped  made  me  suspect.  I  ac- 
cused you,  and  in  your  guilt  you  confessed  all.     Didn't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  s'pose  I  did.  I  don't  know.  Oh,  I  wish  I 
was — " 

For  the  third  time  hvir  companion  grabbed  the  tongs,  and 
the  old  woman  subsided  again  into  pitiful  whimpering. 

"  Now  you  know,  Judith  Wildman,  if  you  aggravate  me  too 
much,  what  will  be  the  consequence.  I  am  going  up  to  the 
castle,  to  tell  this  story,  to-night — a  shameful  story,  that  you 
should  have  told  long  ago — and  you  must  hold  yourself  pre- 
pared to  swear  to  it,  when  called  upon  to  do  so.  Your  son 
knew  nothing  of  it — he  knows  nothing  of  it  yet ;  so  no  blame 
attaches  to  him,  and  all  will  end  right." 

That  might  be  ;  but  Judith  couldn't  see  it,  and  her  misery 
was  a  piteous  sight  to  behold.  For  that  matter,  Mr.  Sweet 
himself  did  not  look  too  much  at  his  ease,  nothing  near  so 
much  as  was  his  suave  wont,  and  the  paleness  that  lay  on 
his  face,  and  the  excited  light  that  gleamed  in  his  eyes,  were 
much  the  same  as  had  been  seen  on  his  wedding-day. 

"  The  whole  extent  of  the  matter  is  this,"  he  said,  laying 
it  down  with  the  linger  of  his  right  hand  on  the  palm  of  his 
left:  "I  will  tell- the  story,  and  you  will  be  called  upon.  I^ 
you  do  right,  and  keep  to  the  truth,  you  and  your  son  will 
get  off  scot  free,  and  I  will  send  you  away  from  this  place 
richer  than  you  ever  were  before  in  your  life.  If,  on  the 
contrary,  you  bungle,  and  make  a  mess  of  it,  out  will  come 
the  pleasant  little  episode  of  Jack  Wildman,  who  will  swing 
from  the  top  of  the  Cliftonlea  jail,  immediately  after  assizes  ; 
and  you,  my  worthy  soul  !  if  you  escape  a  similar  fate,  will 
rot  out  the  rest  of  your  life  in  the  workhouse.  Do  you  un- 
derstand that  ? " 

The  question  was  rather  superfluous,  for  Judith  understood 
it  so  well  that  she  rolled  off  her  stool,  and  worked  on  the 
floor  in  a  sort  of  fit. '  Rather  dismayed,  the  lawyer  jumped 
up ;  but,  as  in  the  course  of  a  little  more  kicking  and  strug- 
gling, she  worked  herself   out  of  it  again,  into  a  state  of 


•M 


i 


WHERE  THE  BRIDEGROOM  WAS. 


230 


nd 
tic 
no 


I 

)d 


.-5J 


moaning  and  gasping,  he  took  his  hat  and  gloves  and  turned 
to  go. 

"  You  had  better  get  up  off  the  floor,  Mrs.  Wildman,  and 
take  a  smoke,"  was  his  parting  advice.  **  Good-by.  Don't 
go  to  bed.     You  will  probably  be  wanted  before  morning." 

He  walked  away,  turning  one  backward  glance  on  the 
waving  trees  at  the  park,  smiling  as  he  did  so.  The  fisher- 
men he  met  pulled  off  their  hats  to  the  steward  of  their  lady, 
and  never  before  had  they  known  him  to  be  so  condescend- 
ingly gracious  in  returning  it.  As  he  passed  through  the 
town,  too,  everybody  noticed  that  the  lawyer  was  in  uncommon 
good  humor,  even  for  him ,  and  he  quite  beamed  on  the 
servant-maid  who  opened  the  door  of  his  own  house,  when 
he  knocked.  It  was  a  very  nice  house — was  Mr.  Sweet's — 
with  a  spacious  garden  around  it,  belonging  to  Lady  Agnes, 
and  always  occupied  by  her  agent. 

"  Where  is  your  mistress,  Elizabeth  ?  "  he  asked. 

**  Missis  be  in  the  parlor,  sir,  if  you  please." 

Two  doors  flanked  the  hall.  He  opened  one  to  the  right 
and  entered  a  pretty  room — medallion  carpet  on  the  floor, 
tasteful  paper-hangings  on  the  walls,  nice  tables  and  sofas, 
some  pictures  in  gilt  frames,  a  large  marble-topped  table 
strewn  with  books  in  the  center  of  the  floor,  and  a  great 
many  China  dogs  and  cats  on  the  mantelpiece.  But  the 
window — for  it  had  only  one  window,  this  parlor — was 
pleasanter  than  all — a  deep  bay-window,  with  a  sort  of  divan 
all  around  it ;  and  when  the  crismon  moreen  curtains  were 
down  it  was  the  coziest  little  room  in  the  world.  It  was  in 
this  recess,  lying  among  soft  cushions,  that  the  new  Mrs. 
Sweet  had  spent  all  her  time  since  her  return  to  Cliftonlea ; 
and  it  was  there  her  husband  expected  to  find  her  now. 
There  she  was  not,  however ;  but  walking  up  and  down  the 
room  with  the  air  of  a  tragedy-queen.  Neither  Rachel  nor 
Mrs.  Siddons  in  their  palmiest  day  could  have  surpassed  it. 
Her  hands  were  clenched  ;  her  eyes  were  flaming  ;  her  step 
had  a  fiercely-metallic  ring ;  her  dark  profusion  of  hair,  as  if 
to  add  to  the  effect,  was  unbound  and  streaming  around  her ; 
and  had  any  stranger  entered  just  then,  and  seen  her,  his 
thofught  would  have  been  that  he  had  got  by  mistake  into  the 
cell  of  some  private  lunatic  asylum. 

"  What  new    tantrum    is   this   my  lady  has  got   into  ?  '* 


240       THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTlvE  CUFFE. 


I 


I 


thought  Mr.  Sweet,  quailing  a  little  before  the  terriblie  light 
in  his  lady's  eyes,  as  he  shut  the  door  and  stood  looking  at 
her  with  his  back  to  it.  "  My  dear  Barbara,  what  is  the 
matter  ? " 

The  only  answer  as  she  strode  past  was  a  glare  out  of  the 
flashing  eyes,  which  he  cowered  inwardly  under,  even  as  he 
repeated  the  question : 

"My   dear  Barbara,  what  is  the  matter ?  " 

She  stopped  this  time  and  stood  before  him,  looki'ig  so 
much  like  a  frenzied  maniac,  that  his  sallow  complexion 
turned  a  sort  of  sea-green  with  terror. 

"  Don't  ar^k  me  !  "  she  said,  fairly  hisiing  the  words 
through  her  closed  teeth,  "  don't !  There  is  a  spirit  within 
me  that  is  not  from  heaven  ;  and  the  less  you  of  all  people 
say  to  me  to-night,  the  better !  " 

"  But,  my  dear  Barbara "  .  ' 

"  Your  dear  Barbara  1  "  she  broke  out,  wich  passionate 
scorn.  "  Oh,  blind,  blind  fool !  blind,  besotted  fool  that  I 
was  ever  to  come  to  this !  Go,  I  tell  you  1  If  you  have  any 
mercy  on  yourself,  go  and  leave  me  1  I  am  not  myself.  I 
am  mad,  and  you  are  not  sr.fe  in  the  same  room  with  me  !  '* 

"  Barbara,  hear  me  !"  --, 

"  Not  a  word,  not  a  syllable.  I  have  awoke  from  my 
trance — the  horrible  trance  in  which  I  was  inveigled  to 
marry  you.  Man  ! '"  she  cried,  in  a  sort  of  frenzy,  stopping 
before  him  again,  "  if  you  had  murdered  me,  I  could  have 
forgiven  you ;  but  for  making  me  your  wife,  I  can  never 
forgive  you — never,  until  my  dying  day  I  "  *   > 

"  Barbara  I  " 

But  she  would  not  hear  him  ;  for  the  time  she  was  really 
insane,  and  tore  up  and  down  the  room  like  a  very  fury. 

"  Oh,  miserable,  driveling  idiot  that  I  have  been  1  Sunken, 
degraded  wretch  that  I  am,  ever  to  have  married  this  thing  I 
And  you,  poor,  pitiful  hound,  whom  I  hate  and  despise  more 
than  any  other  creature  on  God's  earth,  you  forced  me  into 
this  marriage  when  I  was  beside  myself  and  knew  not  what 
I  did !  You,  knowing  I  loved  another,  cajoled  me  into  mar- 
rying yourself ;  and  I  hate  you  for  it  1  I  hate  you  1  I  hate 
youl" 

Mr.  Sweet's  complexion,  from  sea-green,  turned  livid  and 
ghastly ;  but  his  voice,  though   husky,  was   strangely  calm. 


WHERE  THE  BRIDEGROOM  WAS.         241 


ght 

at 

the 


^  >■ 


-/ 


<   "  I   did  not  force  you,  Barbara  1     You   know    what  you 
married  me  for — revenge  1 " 

"  Revenge  1"  she  echoed,  breaking  into  a  hysterical  laugh. 
"  Why,  man,  I  tell  you,  one  other  such  victory  would  cost 
me  my  kingdom  I  Yes,  I  have  the  revenge  of  knowing  I  am 
despised  by  the  man  whom  I  love  I  Do  you  hear  that, 
Sylvester  Sweet — whom  I  love !  Every  hair  of  whose  head 
is  dearer  to  me  than  your  whole  niiserable  sou)  and  body  1 " 

Strange  lividness  this  in  Mr.  Sweet's  placid  face  I  Strange 
fire  this  in  his  calm  eye ;  but  his  voice  was  steady  and  un- 
moved still. 

"  You  forget,  Barbara,  that  he  jilted  you  1 " 
■  ."  And  you  dare  to  taunt  me  with  that !  "  she  almost 
shrieked,  all  her  tiger  passions  unchained.  "  Oh,  that  I  had 
a  knife,  and  I  would  drive  it  to  the  hilt  in  your  heart  for 
daring  to  say  such  a  thing  to  me  I  Oh,  I  htid  fallen  low 
before — a  forsaken,  despised,  cast-off  wretch  1  but  I  never 
sunk  entirely  into  the  slime  until  I  married  you  1  Yes,  he 
jilted  me  ;  but  I  love  him  still — love  him  as  much  as  I  hate 
and  despise  you  1  Go,  I  tell  you  1  go,  and  leave  me,  or  I 
will  strangle  you  where  you  stand  I  " 

She  was  mad.  He  saw  that  in  her  terrible  face.  But, 
through  all  his  horror,  he  strove  to  soothe  her. 

"  Barbara !  Barbara,  let  me  say  one  word  I  The  hour  for 
full  and  complete  vengeance  has  come  at  last  I  To-night 
you  will  triumph  over  him — over  them  all.  This  very  bride 
shall  be  torn  from  him  at  the  altar,  and  you  shall  be  pro- 
claimed—    Barbara — ^great  heavens !  " 

She  had  been  standing  before  him,  but  she  reeled  suddenly 
and  would  have  fallen,  had  he  not  caught  her.  The  frantic 
lit  of  fury  into  which  she  had  lashed  herself  had  given  way, 
and  with  it  all  her  mad  strength.  But  she  was  not  fainting ; 
for,  at  his  hated  touch,  a  look  of  unutterable  loathing  came 
over  the  white  face,  and,  with  a  sort  of  expiring  effort,  she 
lifted  her  hands  and  pushed  him  away. 

"  Go  1  "  she  said,  rising  and  clinging  to  the  table,  while 
her  stormy  voice  was  scarcely  louder  than  a  whisper.  "  Go  I 
If  you  do  not  leave  me  I  shall  die  1 " 

He  saw  that  she  would.  It  was  written  in  every^  line  of  her 
deathlike  face — in  every  quiver  of  the  tottering  fonn  all 
thrilling  with  repulsion.     He  turned  and  opened  the  door. 


242       THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTILE  CUFFE. 

"  I  will  go,  then,  Barbara  1  "  he  said,  turning  for  a  last 
look  as  he  passed  out.  "  I  go  to  fulfil  my  promise  and  com- 
plete your  revenge  I  "  > 

He  closed  the  door,  went  through  the  hall,  down  the  steps, 
along  the  graveled  walk,  and  out  into  the  busy,  bustling 
street.  And  how  was  Mr.  Sweet  to  know  that  he  and  his 
bride  had  parted  forever  ? 

With  the  last  sounds  of  his  footsteps,  Barbara  had  tottered 
to  the  divan  and  sunk  down  among  the  cushions  with  a  prayer 
in  her  heart  she  had  not  strength  enough  to  utter  in  words, 
that  she  might  never  rise  again.  All  the  giant  fury  of  her  pas- 
sion had  passed  away  ;  but  she  had  no  tears  to  shed — nothing 
to  do  but  lie  there  and  feel  that  she  had  lost  life,  and  that  her 
seared  heart  had  turned  to  dust  and  ashes.  There  was  no 
revenge  loft ;  that  was  gone  with  her  strength — no  wish  for 
anything  but  to  lie  there  and  die.  She  knew  that  it  was  his 
wedding  night.  She  heard  carriage  after  carriage  rolling 
away  to  Castle  Cliffe,  and  she  felt  as  if  the  wheels  of  all  were 
crashing  over  her  heart.  The  last  rosy  ray  of  daylight  faded ; 
the  summer  moon  rose  up,  stealing  in  through  the  open 
curtains,  and  its  pale  light  lay  on  the  bowed  young  head  like 
the  pitying  hand  of  a  friend. 

There  came  a  knock  at  the  front  door — a  knock  loud  and 
imperative,  that  rung  from  end  to  end  of  the  house.  Why 
did  Barbara's  heart  bound,  as  if  it  would  leap  from  her 
breast?  She  had  never  heard  that  knock  before.  There 
was  a  step  in  the  hall,  light,  quick,  and  decided — a  voice,  too, 
that  she  would  have  known  all  the  world  over.  She  had 
hungered  and  thirsted  for  that  voice — she  had  desired  it  as 
the  blind  desire  sight. 

"  And  am  I  really  going  mad  ?  "  was  Barbara's  thought. 

It  was  no  madness.  The  door  was  opened,  the  step  was 
in  the  room,  arid  Elizabeth,  the  housemaid,  was  speaking : 

"  Missis  be  in  here,  sir.     I'll  go  and  fetch  a  light."  : 

"  Never  mind  a  light." 

The  door  was  closed  in  Elizabeth's  face ;  the  kev  turned 
to  keep  out  intrviders,  and  some  one  was  bending  over  her  as 
she  lay,  or,  rather,  crouched.  She  could  not  tell  whether  she 
was  sane  or  mad.  She  dared  not  look  up ;  it  must  be  all  an 
illusion.     What  could  he  be  doing  here,  and  to-night  ? 

"Barbara!"  ....-,..,     .  , 


WHERK  THE  BRIDEGROOM  WAS.        243 

Oh,  that  voice  !  If  this  was  madness,  she  never  wished 
to  be  sane  again.     -^ 

"Barbara  I" 

Some  one's  hair  was  touching  her  cheek — some  one's 
hand  was  holding  her  own — the  dear  voice  was  at  her  ear. 

"  Barbara,  have  you  no  word  for  me,  either  of  hatred  or 
forgiveness  ?     Will  you  not  even  look  at  me,  Barbara  ?  " 

She  lifted  her  face  for  one  instant.  Yes,  it  was  he,  pale 
and  passionate — he  here,  even  at  this  hour.  She  dared  not 
look — she  dropped  her  face  again  in  the  cushion. 

"  Have  I  then  sinned  beyond  redemption  ?  Am  I  so 
utterly  hateful  to  you,  Barbara,  that  you  cannot  even  look  ?  " 

Barbara  was  mute. 

"  Do  you  knpw  that  I  was  to  be  married  to-night — that  my 
bride  is  waiting  for  me  even  now  ?  " 

"I  know  it!  I  know  it!  "  she  said  with  a  sort  of  cry — 
that  arrow  going  to  the  m  irk.  "  Oh,  Leicester,  you  have 
broken  my  heart !  " 

"  I  have  been  a  traitor  and  a  villain,  I  know ;  but,  villain 
as  I  am,  I  could  not  finish  what  I  had  begun.  At  the  last 
hour  I  have  deserted  them  all,  Barbara,  to  kneel  at  your  feet 
again.  She  is  beautiful  and  good ;  but  I  only  love  you,  and 
so  to  you  I  have  come  back.  Will  you  send  me  av.av,  Bar- 
bara ? " 

Her  hand  only  tightened  over  his  for  answer.  In  that 
moment  she  only  knew  that  she  was  utterly  miserable  and 
desperate,  and  that  she  loved  this  man.  She  felt  herself 
standing  on  a  quicksand,  and  that  it  was  shifting  away  under 
her  feet,  and  letting  her  down. 

*'  When  I  left  you  and  went  to  London,  Barbara,"  the 
dear  low  voice  went  on,  "  and  saw  her  first,  I  was  dazzled  ; 
and  somehow,  Heaven  only  knows  how  1  I  promised  to  fulfil 
an  engagement  made  years  before  I  had  even  heard  of  her. 
While  she  glittered  before  me,  the  daze  continued  ;  but  the 
moment  I  left  her,  the  scales  fell  from  my  eyes,  and  I  saw  it 
all.  I  came  back  to  Cliftonlea,  determined  to  give  up  every- 
thing for  love  and  you — to  make  you  my  wife,  and  seek 
together  a  home  in  the  New  World.  I  came.  As  I  passed 
the  cathedral,  I  saw  a  crowd,  and  entering,  the  first  thing  I 
beheld  was  you,  Barbara,  the  wife  of  another  man — my 
repentance  and  resolution  all  too  late." 


244      ^HE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CUFFE. 

His  listener  had  a  long  account  to  settle  with  that  other 
man.  It  was  only  one  more  item  added  to  the  catalogue, 
and  she  said  nothing ;  and  still  holding  her  hand  tighter,  and 
coming  nearer,  the  voice  went  on : 

"  I  thought  I  would  give  you  up,  forget  you,  and  take  the 
bride  they  had  chosen  for  me ;  but  now,  at  the  last  hour,  I 
find  that  life  without  you  is  less  than  worthless.  Your 
marriage  was  a  mockery.  You  cannot  care  for  this  man. 
Will  you  send  me  away,  desolate  and  alone,  over  the  world  ? " 

Still  she  did  not  speak.  The  sand  was  slipping  away  fast, 
and  she  was  going  down. 

"  Barbara  1  "  he  whispered,  "  you  do  not  love  this  man — 
you  love  me.     Then  leave  him  forever,  and  fly  with  me."  . 


>'•-.: 


V  .a 


-  -  ^" 


.    A  SOfRANGK  REQUEST. 


845 


■"i'^i/ ,'. 


n' 


CHAPTER   XXV. 


A     STRANGE     REQUEST. 


The  road  from  the  town  of  Cliftonlea  to  the  castle  was  a 
somewhat  long  one  ;  but  by  turning  off  and  going  through 
Lower  Ciiffe  and  the  park  gates,  the  distance  was  shortened 
by  half.  Mr.  Sweet,  however,  did  not  choose  to  take  this 
short  cut ;  but  walked  on  through  the  town,  at  his  usual 
steady  space,  neither  slowly  nor  hurriedly,  and  the  white 
summer  moon  was  shining  over  his  head  as  he  passed  the 
Italian  cottage.  The  whole  park  seemed  alive.  Up  on  a 
hill  fireworks  in  full  blaze,  and  a  vast  crowd  was  gathered 
round  them.  Down  in  a  smooth  hollow  the  Cliftonlea  brass 
band  was  discoursing  merry  music ;  and  on  the  velvet  sward 
the  dancers  were  enjoying  themselves  in  another  way.  The 
place  was  one  blaze  of  rainbow  light,  from  the  myriad  colored 
lamps  hung  in  the  trees ;  and  the  moon  was  more  like  a  dim 
tallow  candle,  set  up  in  the  sky  to  be  out  of  the  way,  than 
anything  else.  The  joy-bells  were  clashing  out  high  over  all, 
and  mingled  with  their  loud  ringing,  the  lawyer  caught  the 
sound  of  the  cathedral  clock  tolling  nine  as  he  entered  the 
paved  court-yard. «  He  paused  for  a  moment  with  a  smile  on 
his  lips. 

"  Nine  o'clock — the  appointed  hour  I  Perhaps  I  will  be 
too  late  for  the  ceremony,  after  all,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he 
ran  up  the  steps.  The  great  hall  door  stood  open  to  admit 
the  cool  night  air,  and,  standing  in  a  blaze  of  light,  he  saw 
Sir  Roland  and  Colonel  Shirley  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  No 
one  else  was  in  the  domed  hall  but  the  servants,  who  flitted 
ceaselessly  to  and  fro  at  the  further  end  ;  and  he  stepped  in, 
hat  in  hand.  The  two  gentlemen  turned  simultaneously  and 
eagerly,  but  the  faces  of  both  fell  when  they  saw  who  it  was. 

"  Good-evening,  Sir  Roland  ;  good-evening.  Colonel  Shir- 
ley," began  Mr.  Sweet,  bowing  low.  "  Permit  me  to  offer 
my  congratulations  on  this  happy  occasion." 


246      THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CLIFFE. 


"  Congratulations !  "  exclaimed  the  Colonel ;  '-  faith,  1 
think  there  will  be  something  besides  congratulations  needed 
shortly  I  Have  you  seen  Mr.  Leicester  Cliffe  anywhere  in 
your  travels  so-night,  Mr.  Sweet? 

Mr.  Sweet  looked  at  the  speaker  in  undisguised  astonish- 
ment. 

"  Mr.  Leicester  !  is  it  possible  that  he  is  not  here  ?  " 

"  Very  possible,  my  dear  sir.  I  shall  be  most  happy  to 
see  him  when  he  comes,  and  let  him  know  what  it  is  to  have 
a  bullet  through  the  head  I  " 

"  Is  it  really  possible  ?  Where  in  the  world  can  he  be  to- 
night of  all  nights,  if  not  here  ?  " 

"  Ah  I  that  is  what  I  would  like  to  have  some  one  tell  me. 
Wherever  he  may  be,  Castle  Cliffe  has  certainly  not  the 
honor  of  containing  him  ;  and  the  hour  for  the  ceremony, 
you  see,  is  past." 

"  It  is  astonishing  I  "  said  Mr.  Sweet,  slowly,  and  looking 
a  little  bewildered  by  the  news.  "It  is  incomprehensible  1 
I  never  heard  anything  like  it  in  my  life  1 " 

"  I  agree  with  you.  But  that  does  not  mend  the  matter, 
unhappily  ;  and  if  he  does  not  appear  within  the  next  fifteen 
minutes,  you  will  have  the  goodness  to  go  and  stop  those 
confounded  bells,  and  send  all  those  good  people  in  the  park 
about  their  business  !  " 

*'  And  there  has  been  no  wedding,  then,  to-night  ?  "  said 
Mr.  Sweet,  still  looking  bewildered. 

"  None  1     Nor  is  there  likely  to  be,  as  far  as  I  can  see." 

"  And  Miss  Shirley  is  still—" 

"  Miss  Shirley  !  and  seems  in  a  fair  way  of  remaining  so 
for  the  present,  at  least." 

"  You  have  something  to  say.  Sweet,  have  you  not  ?  " 
asked  Sir  Roland,  who  had  been  watching  the  lawyer,  and 
seemed  struck  by  something  in  his  face. 

Mr.  Sweet  hesitated  a  little  ;  but  the  colonel  interposed 
impatiently : 

"  Out  with  it,  man  !  If  you  have  anything  to  say,  let  us 
have  it  at  once." 

"  My  request  may  seem  strange — bold — almost  inadmis- 
sible," said  the  lawyer,  still  hesitating.  "  But  I  do  assure  you, 
I  would  not  make  it  vvere  it  not  necessary." 

"  What  is  the  man  driving  at  ?  "  broke  out  the  colonel,  ia 


A  STRANGE  REQUEST. 


247 


astoriishment  and  impatience.  "What's  all  this  palaver 
about  ?  Come  to  the  point  at  once,  Sweet,  and  let  us  have 
this  inadmissible  request  of  yours." 

"  It  is,  colonel,  that  I  see  Miss  Shirley  at  once  and  alone ! 
I  have  two  or  three  words  to  say  to  her  that  it  is  absolutely 
necessary  she  should  hear." 

Sir  Roland  ?»nd  Colonel  Shirley  looked  at  each  other,  and 
then  at  Mr.  Sweet,  who,  in  spite  of  every  effort,  seemed  a 
littl  3  nervous  and  excited. 

"  See  Miss  Shirley  at  once,  and  alone  I  "  repeated  Sir 
Roland,  looking  at  him  with  some  of  his  sister's  piercing 
intentness.  "  You  did  right  to  say  that  your  request  was  ^ 
strange  and  bold  one.  What  can  you  possibly  have  to  say 
to  Miss  Shirley  ?  " 

"  A  few  very  important  words,  Sir  Roland." 

'  Say  them,  then,  to  the  young  lady's  father  j  she  has  no 
secrets  from  him." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  I  cannot  do  so.  That  is,  I  would 
infinitely  rather  say  them  to  herself  first,  and  leave  it  to  her 
own  good  pleasure  to  repeat  them." 

"  Are  you  sure  it  is  nothing  about  my  son  ?  '' 

"Certainly,  Sir  Roland.     Of  your  son  I  know  nothing." 

"Well,  it's  odd!"  said  the  colonel.  **But  I  have  no 
objection  to  your  seeing  Vivia  if  she  has  none.  Come  this 
way,  Mr.  Sweet." 

Taking  the  wide  staircase  in  long  bounds,  as  lightly  as  he 
could  have  done  twenty  years  before,  the  colonel  gained  the 
upper  hall,  followed  by  the  lawyer,  and  tapped  at  the  door 
of  the  rose  room.  It  was  opened  immediately  by  Lady  Agnes, 
who  looked  out  with  an  anxious  face. 
.    "  Oh,  Cliffe  !  has  Leicester  come  ?  " 

"No,  indeed!  but  a  very  different  person  has — Mr. 
Sweet." 

"  Mr.  Sweet  1  Does  he  bring  any  news  ?  Has  anything 
happened  ? " 

"  No ;  though  he  says  he  wants  to  see  Vivia." 

"  See  Vivia  I  "  exclaimed  her  ladyship,  looking  in  the  last 
degree  amazed,  not  to  say  shocked,  at  the  unprecedented 
request.     "  Has  Mr.  Sweet  gone  crazy  ?  " 

"  Not  that  I  know  of.  But  here  he  is  to  answer  for  him- 
self." -'  v 


24«      THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTILE  CI.IFFE. 


! 
I 

i 


Thus  invoked,  Mr.  Sweet  presented  himself  with  a  depre- 
cating bow. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  lady.  I  know  the  request  seems 
''trange  ;  but  I  cannot  help  it,  unreasonable  as  the  time  is. 
I  beg  of  you  to  let  me  see  Miss  Shirley  at  once,  and  the 
explanation  shall  come  afterward." 

"I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  sort!  I'm  surprised  at  you, 
Mr.  Sweet  1  What  can  you  mean  by  so  outrageous  a 
request  ?  '* 

"  My  lady,  if  you  insist  upon  it,  I  must  tell  you ;  but  I 
earnestly  entreat  you  not  to  force  me  to  a  public  explanation, 
until  I  ha  e  spoken  in  private  to  Miss  Shirley." 

"  Oh,  it  is  something  about  Leicester  I  I  know  it  is,  and 
he  wants  to  prepare  her  for  some  shock.  Mr.  Sweet,  do  not 
dare  to  trifle  with  me  1  I  am  no  baby  ;  and  if  it's  anything 
about  him,  I  command  you  to  speak  out  at  once  1  " 

"  Lady  Agnes,  I  have  said,  again  and  again,  that  it  is 
nothing  about  him,  and  I  repeat  it.  Of  Mr.  Leicester  Cliffe 
I  know  nothing  whatever.  The  matter  simply  and  solel/ 
concerns  Miss  Shirley  alone." 

"Me  void r''  cried  a  silvery  voice.  And  the  beautiful 
smilmg  face  of  the  bride  peeped  over  grandmamma's  satin 
shoulder.         .;      .  ,  .* 

"Who  wants  Miss  Shirley?  Oh,  Mr.  Sv/eet,  is  it  you? 
Has  anything  ha^>pened  to — " 

She  paused,  coloring  vividly. 

"  Nothing  has  happened  to  Mr.  Cliffe,  I  hope.  Miss  Shir- 
ley," said  Mr.  Sweet,  turning  his  anxious  face  toward  that 
young  lady.  "  I  have  no  d'>ubt  he  will  be  here  presently  ; 
but  before  he  comes,  it  is  of  the  utmost  importance  I  should 
see  you  a  few  minutes  in  private." 

Miss  Shirley  opened  her  blue  eyes,  according  to  custom, 
extremely  widC;  and  turned  them  in  bewildering  inquiry  upon 
papa. 

"  Mr.  Sweet  has  some  awful  secret  to  reveal  to  you,  Vivia," 
observed  that  gentlemen,  smiling.  "  The  *  Mysteries  of 
Udolpho,*  were  plain  reading  compared  to  him  this  evening." 

"  If  Mr.  Sweet  has  anything  to  say  to  Miss  ^liirley," 
said  Lady  Agnes,  haughtily,  "  let  him  say  it  here  and  at  once. 
I  cannot  have  any  secret  inierview  and  mysterious  nonsense. 

"  It  is  not  nonssnse,  my  lady.'' 


n 


WHERE  THE  BRIDEGROOM  WAS.        249 

"  The  more  reason  you  should  out  with  it  at  once.  You 
do  not  need  to  be  told  that  anything  that  concerns  Miss 
Shirley  concerns  her  father  and  myself.  If  you  do  not  like 
that,  you  had  better  take  your  leave." 

Mr.  Sweet  turned  so  distressed  and  imploring  a  face  at 
this  sharp  speech  toward  Miss  Vivia,  that  that  good-natured 
young  lady  felt  called  upon  to  strike  in. 

«*  Never  mind,  grandmamma.  1  lere  is  nothing  so  veiy 
dreadful  in  his  speaking  to  me  in  private,  since  he  wishes  it 
so  much.     It  is  not  wrong — is  it,  papa  ?  " 

"  Not  wrong,  but  rather  silly,  I  think. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Sweet  and  I  are-sowise  generally  that  we  can 
afford  to  be  silly  for  once  1  Don't  say  a  word,  grandmamma  ; 
it's  all  right.     This  way,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Sweet." 

Turning  her  pretty  face  as  she  went,  with  an  arch  little 
smile,  she  tripped  across  the  hall,  and  opened  a  door  opposite 
— what  was  called  the  winter  drawing-room.  The  lawyer 
followed  the  shining  figure  of  the  bride  into  the  apartment, 
whose  pervading  tints  were  gold  and  crimson,  and  which  was 
illuminated  with  amber  shaded  lamps,  filling  it  with  a  sort 
of  golden  haze.  He  closed  the  door  after  him,  and  stood 
for  a  moment  with  his  back  to  it. 

"  Will  your  two  or  three  words  take  long  to  say,  Mr, 
Sweet  ?  **  asked  Miss  Shirley,  still  smiling — "  which  means, 
am  I  to  sit  down  or  stand  ?  " 

"You  had  better  sit  down,  I  think,  Miss  Shirley." 

"  Ah  ?  I  thought  it  was  more  than  two  or  three  words  ; 
but  you  had  better  be  quick,  for  I  have  not  much  time  to 
spare  on  this  particular  evening  1  " 

She  sunk  into  2ifauteuil  oi  scarlet  velvet  ;  her  gossamer 
robes  floating  about  her  like  white  mist ;  her  graceful  head, 
with  its  snowy  veil,  and  golden  curls,  and  jeweled  orange- 
blossoms,  leaning  lightly  against  its  glowing  back  ;  the  ex- 
quisite face  whereon  the  smile  still  lingered,  as  she  lightly 
waved  him  to  a  distant  chair.  Truly,  she  was  dazzling  in 
her  beauty  and  her  splendor  ;  but  her  companion  was  not 
dazzled — he  was  smiling  a  little  as  he  took  his  seat. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Sweet,  what  is  this  terrible  mystery  of  which 
papa  speaks  ? " 

"  Colonel  Shirley  has  termed  it  rightly — it  is  a  terrible 
mystery." 


, 


250      THE  HKIRESS  OF  CASTI.K  CWFFE. 


"  Indeed  I  And  it  concerns  me,  I  suppose,  or  you  would 
not  be  so  an^iious  to  tell  it  to  me." 

"  Yes,  Miss  Shirley,  I  am  sorry  to  say  it  concerns  you 
very  closely  indeed." 

"  Sorry  to  say  I     Well,  go  on  and  let  me  hear  it  then." 

"  It  is  a  somewhat  complexed  story.  Miss  Shirley,  and  re- 
quires me  to  go  back  a  long  time — over  eighteen  years." 

Miss  Shirley  bowed  slowly  her  willingness  for  him  to  go 
back  to  the  flood,  if  he  liked. 

"  More  than  eighteen  years  ago.  Miss  Shirley,  there  lived, 
several  miles  from  London,  in  a  poor  enough  cottage — for 
they  were  very  poor  people — a  certain  man  and  wife — Mr. 
and  Mrs.  John  Wildman." 

At  this  unexpected  announcement.  Miss  Shirley  opened 
her  bhie  eyes  again,  and  smiled  a  little  amused  smile,  as 
she  looked  at  him  inquiringly. 

"  This  Mr.  John  Wildman  was  by  trade  a  bricklayer,  and 
often  absent  from  home  weeks  at  a  time.  One  morning, 
very  early,  during  one  of  these  absences,  a  carriage  drove 
up  to  the  door,  and  a  young  lady  and  gentleman  made  their 
appearance  in  the  cottage.  The  young  lady  appeared  to  be 
ill,  and  the  gentleman  seemed  exceedingly  anxious  that  she 
should  lodge  there.  Mrs.  Wildman  was  not  many  months 
married  ;  they  were  poor  ;  she  wished  to  help  her  husband, 
if  she  could  ;  the  gentleman  promised  to  pay  well,  and  she 
consented.  He  went  away  immediately,  and  for  the  next 
two  or  three  weeks  did  not  make  his  appearance  again, 
though  money  and  furniture  were  sent  to  the  cottage.  At 
the  end  of  that  time,  two  events  happened — a  child  was 
born  and  the  lady  died.  Before  her  death,  she  had  sent  a 
message  to  the  young  gentleman,  who  came  in  time  to  see 
her  laid  in  the  grave,  and  consigned  his  infant  daughter  to 
the  care  of  Mrs.'  Wildman  before  departing,  as  he  thought, 
forever,  from  his  native  land." 

During  this  preamble,  the  blue  eyes  had  opened  to  their 
widest  extent,  and  were  fixed  on  the  speaker  with  a  little 
bewildered  stare  that  said  plainly  enough,  she  could  make 
neither  head  nor  tail  of  the  whole  thing. 

**  Several  months  after  this,"  Mr.  Sweet  went  on  steadily, 
"this  John  Wildman,  with  a  few  others,  perpetrated  a 
crime  for  which  he  was  transported,  leaving  his  wife  and 


WH^RE  THE  BRIDEGROOM  WAS        251 


re- 


«o 


child — for  they  had  a  child  some  weeks  old — to  get  on  as 
best  they  might  ;  the  strange  gentleman's  infant  with  them. 
It  was  by  means  of  this  very  infant  they  managed  to  exist 
at  all  ;  for  its  father,  immediately  on  his  arrival  in  India, 
for  which  place  he  had  sailed,  sent  her  plentiful  remittances ; 
and  so,  for  nearly  six  years,  they  got  along  tolerably  well. 
At  the  end  of  that  time,  she  fell  ill,  and  her  husband's 
mother,  who  lived  in  some  out-of-the-way  place  in  the  north 
part  of  England,  was  sent  for,  and  came  to  nurse  her  and 
the  two  little  girls — whose  names,  by  the  way,  I  forgot  to 
tell  you,  were  Victoria  and  Barbara." 

During  all  this  time  his  listener  had  been  "  far  wide." 
But  now  she  started  as  if  she  had  received  a  galvanic  shock. 

"  What  I  Victoria  and  Barbara  I  It  isn't  possible 
that ' 

"  Permit  me  to  continue,  Miss  Shirley,"  said  Mr.  Sweet, 
bowing  without  looking  up,  "  and  you  will  soon  recognize  the 
characters.  Yes,  their  names  were  Victoria  and  Barbara. 
Victoria,  the  elder  by  a  few  months,  was  the  daughter  of 
the  dead  lady ;  and  Barbara,  the  daughter  of  the  trans- 
ported felon.  Judith,  the  mother-in-law,  came  to  take 
charge  of  them,  and  heard  for  the  first  time  the  whole 
story.  She  was  a  crafty  old  woman,  was  Judith,  with  little 
love  for  the  daughter-in-law  or  granddaughter  whom  she 
had  come  to  take  care  of.  But  she  was  wicked,  ambitious, 
and  mischievous,  and  a  demoniac  plot  at  once  entered  into 
her  head.  A  letter  was  despatched  to  the  gentleman  in 
India — he  was  an  officer,  too — telling  him  that  the  Wild- 
mans  were  about  to  leave  for  America,  and  that  he  had 
better  come  and  take  charge  of  his  daughter.  Miss  Shir- 
ley, he  came  ;  but  it  was  not  his  daughter  he  received  from 
the  old  woman,  but  her  granddaughter.  The  children  were 
not  unlike  ;  both  had  the  same  fair  complexions,  and  light 
hair  and  blue  eyes.  The  real  Victoria  was  kept  carefully 
out  of  sight,  and  he  carried  off  the  false  one  in  implicit 
trust  and  placed  her  in  a  convent  in  France.  Miss  Shirley, 
I  beg " 

He  stopped  and  rose  hastily,  for  Miss  Shirley  had  sprung 
from  her  seat,  and  was  confronting  him  with  flashing  eyes. 

"  It  is  false  1  It  is  false !  I  shall  never  believe  it  I 
What  is  this  you  have  dared  to  tell  me,  Mr.  Sweet  ? " 


952        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CUFFE. 

"  The  truth,  Miss  Shirley." 

"  My  God  1     Do  you  mean  to  say  that  I  am  really — that 

I  am  not Oh,  it   is  too  false,  too  absurd  to  hear  I      I 

will  not  stop  and  listen  to  you  any  longer." 

She  turned  excitedly  to  go  ;  but  he  placed  himself  be- 
tween her  and  the  door. 

"  Miss  Shirley,  I  beg,  I  entreat,  for  Heaven's  sake  hear 
me  out  1  It  is  every  word  true.  Do  you  think  I  would 
come  here  and  repeat  such  a  tale,  if  I  was  not  positive  ? " 

"  Ohy  Man  Dieu  !  what  is  he  saying  ?  Am  I  dreaming  or 
awake  ? " 

"  Miss  Shirley,  will  you  sit  down  and  hear  me  out  ?  " 

"  Miss  Shirley  I  "  she  said,  with  a  sort  of  wildness  in  her 
look.  "  If  what  you  have  dared  to  say  be  true,  I  have  no 
right  to  that  name.  It  has  never  for  one  poor  moment  be- 
longed to  me  1  " 

"  You  are  quite  right  ;  but  the  name,  just  now,  is  of 
little  consequence.  Will  you  be  pleased  to  sit  down  and 
listen  while  I  finish  ?  "  -^      v 

"  I  am  listening — go  on." 

She  sunk  back  into  the  seat,  not  leaning  back  this  time, 
but  sitting  erect,  her  little  white  hands  clinging  to  one  arm 
of  the  chair,  the  wonderful  blue  eyes  fixed  upon  him  wild 
and  dilated.  Her  companion  *  resumed  his  seat  and  his 
story  ;  his  own  eyes  fixed  on  the  carpet. 

"  The  little  girl  in  the  convent,  who  bore  the  name  of 
Victoria  Genevieve  Shirley,  but  who  in  reality  was  Barbara 
Wildman,  remained  there  until  she  was  twelve  years  old, 
when  the  Indian  officer,  who  fancied  himself  her  father,  re- 
turned to  England,  his  mother,  and  his  native  home,  and 
his  little  girl,  the  supposed  heiress  of  Castle  Cliflfe,  wa.>»  sent 
for  and  came  here.  Miss  Shirley,  to  tell  you  any  more  of 
her  history  would  be  superfluous  ;  but  perhaps  you  would 
like  to  hear  the  story  of  the  real,  the  defrauded  heiress,  the 
supposed  Barbara  ? " 

He  paused  to  see  if  she  would  speak,  and  looked  at  her ; 
but  one  glance  was  all  he  dared  venture,  and  he  lowered 
his  eyes  and  went  hurriedly  on  : 

"  The  sick  mother  knevf  nothing  of  the  change  until  it 
was  too  late,  and  then  she  went  frantic  with  grief.  Old 
Judith,  alarmed,  as  she  very  well   might  be,  managed  to 


■■'•1 


WHERE  THE  BRIDEGROOM  WAS.        253 


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remove  her  to  London,  by  telling  her  she  would  recover  her 
child  there  ;  and  when  there,  gave  out  she  was  mad,  and 
had  her  imprisoned  in  a  madhouse.  It  is  all  very  dread- 
ful, Miss  Shirley,  but  I  regret  to  repeat  it  is  all  quite  true, 
nevertheless." 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands/^  and  sunk  down 
among  the  cushions  of  the  seat,  quivering  all  over  for  a 
moment,  then  becoming  perfectly  still. 

"  The  old  woman  changed  the  name  of  Wildman  for  that 
of  Black  ;  and  during  the  next  two  or  three  years  lived  on 
the  money  paid  her  by  Colonel  Shirley.  That  began  to 
give  out,  and  she  resolved  to  make  Colonel  Shirley's  daugh- 
ter find  her  more.  Barbara — the  children's  names,  as  I 
told  you,  were  changed — was  a  pretty  little  girl  of  nine,  and 
attracted  the  attention  of  the  manager  cf  a  band  of  stroll- 
ing players.  She  became  one  c*  *he  hand — the  most  pop- 
ular one  among  them — and  for  the  next  two  years  she  and 
her  grandmother  managed  very  well,  when  one  day  they 
were  astonished  by  the  unlooked-for  appearance  of  the  trans- 
ported Mr.  Wildman,  who  had  made  his  escape,  and  had 
found  them  out.  He,  too,  took  the  name  of  Black — Peter 
Black — attached  himself  to  the  same  company,  and  the 
three  went  wandering  over  England  together.  Are  you 
listening,  Miss  Shirley  ?  " 

He  really  thought  she  was  not,  she  lay  so  rigid  and  still ; 
but  at  the  question  she  partly  raised  herself  and  looked 
at  him.  "j 

"  Barbara  Black  that  was — your  wife  that  is — is  then  the 
real  Victoria  Shirley  ?  "  .       , 

«*Sheis." 

"  He  did  not  dare  look  at  her  ;  but  he  felt  the  blue  eyes 
were  transfixing  him  and  reading  his  very  heart.  It  was 
only  for  a  few  seconds,  and  then  she  dropped  down  among 
the  cushions  again  and  lay  still. 

"  They  came  he.  j  to  Sussex  six  years  ago,  and  strange 
enough  settled  here.  The  old  woman  and  her  son  had  each 
probably  their  own  reasons  for  so  doing.  It  is  an  out-of-the- 
way  place,  this  little  seacoast  town,  and  the  returned  con- 
vict was  not  ambitious  to  extend  the  circle  of  his  acquaint- 
ance {,  and  his  mother,  probably,  was  actuated  by  a  desire  to 
see  how  her  wicked  and  cruel  plot  worked.     So  the  real  and 


254        'I'HB  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CLIF^E. 

supposed  heiress  grew  up,  both  benutif ul ;  but  all  similarity 
ended  between  them  there — one  in  the  lap  of  luxury,  envied, 
admired  and  happy  ;  the  other  wretchedly  poor,  little  cared 
for  and  miserable.  But  I,  Miss  Shirley,  knowing  nothing  of 
all  this,  loved  her  and  married  her ;  and  it  is  only  wiihin  the 
last  day  or  two  these  facts  have  come  to  my  knowledge.  T 
beg  your  pardon,  but  are  you  really  listening  ?  " 

He  could  not  tell  what  to  make  of  her.  She  lay  drooping 
over  the  side  of  the  chair  so  immovably  that  she  might  have 
been  dead,  for  all  the  signs  of  life  she  exhibited.  But  she 
was  very  far  from  dead  ;  for  she  answered  as  she  had  done 
before,  and  at  once  ;  and  the  sweet  voice  was  almost  harsh, 
so  full  was.  it  of  suppressed  inward  pain. 

"  I  am  listening.     Why  need  you  ask.     Go  on." 

"  This  miserable  old  woman  was  fond  of  you — excuse  me 
if  I  pain  you — and  her  exultation  began  to  come  out  when 
she  found  you  were  to  be  the  bride  of  the  first  gentleman  in 
Sussex.  Her  reputed  granddaughter,  whom  she  feared  and 
disliked,  was  my  \vife  ;  all  her  schemes  seemed  accomplished, 
and,  in  her  triumph,  she  dropped  hints  that  roused  my  sus- 
picions. I  followed  them  up,  suspected  a  great  deal,  and 
at  last  boldly  accused  her  of  all.  She  was  frightened  and 
denied ;  but  her  denials  confirmed  my  suspicions,  and  at 
last  I  forced  from  her  the  whole  disgraceful  truth.  It 
wasn't  over  an  hour  ago.  I  came  here  immediately.  And 
that.  Miss  Shirley,  is  the  whole  story." 

He  drew  a  long  breath,  and  looked  rather  anxious.  She 
neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

"Miss  Shirley  I  " 

"  I  am  listening." 

'M  have  told  you  all.     What  is  to  be  done  now  ?  " 

"You  are  to  go  and  leave  me." 

He  rose  up  and  walked  to  the  door. 

''  Yes,  Miss  Shirley ;  but  I  will  remain  here.  Lady  Agnes 
and  Colonel  Shirley  must  knov/  all  to-night." 

He  opened  the  door  and  passed  out.  The  hall,  in  a  blaze 
of  light,  was  deserted  ;  but  he  heard  the  murmur  of  voices 
from  the  room  opposite    and  from  below. 

"  Yes,"  he  murmured  to  himself  ;  "  yes,  my  dear  Barbara, 
thanks  to  you,  it  is  all  mine  at  last.'* 


DIAMOND  CUT  DIAMOND. 


255 


y 


/ 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 


DIAJHOND    CUT    DIAMOND. 


The  interview  between  the  lawyer  and  the  bride-elect  had 
not  lasted  over  a  quarter  of  an  hour ;  but,  as  he  stood  in  the 
hall  he  felt  that  a  strange  and  ominous  silence  seemed  to 
have  fallen  over  the  house.  As  he  was  about  to  descend, 
the  door  of  the  rose  room  opened,  and  the  pale  and  haughty 
face  of  Lady  Agnes  looked  out. 

"  Is  your  conference  over  ?  "  she  asked.  \ 

*'  It  is  Over,  my  lady."  '  " 

"  And  where  is  my  granddaughter?  " 

*  In  the  drawing-room,  my  lady," 

"  Why  does  she  not  come  out  ?  " 

"  She — she — I  am  afraid  she  is  not  quite  well,  my  lady." 

"  Not  well  1  "  exclaimed  Lady  Agnes,  fixing  her  piercing 
eyes  in  stern  suspicion  on  him.  "  Not  well  I  what  have  you 
been  saying  to  her,  then  ? "  .   '     ". 

"  My  lady,  pardon  me  ;  but  I  think  you  had  better  go  to 
Miss  Shirley  directly." 

"  Very  well,  sir  I  And  you  will  have  the  goodness  to 
stay  where  you  are  until  this  mysterious  matter  is  cleared 
up." 

She  swept  proudly  past  him  with  a  majestic  rustle  of  her 
silk  skirts,  and  opened  tlie  door  of  the  winter  drawing-room. 
But  she  paused  on  the  threshold  with  a  shrill  shriek — such 
a  shriek  as  made  Mr.  Sweet  turn  ashy  white,  terrified  th?5 
guests  below,  and  made  her  son  come  from  the  lower  hall  in 
half  a  dozen  fleet  bounds' to  her  side. 

Vivia  had  fallen  to  the  floor,  not  quite  prostrate,  but 
her  hands  grasping  the  arm  of  the  chair,  her  head  on  them, 
and  her  whole  attitude  unnatural  and  distorted.  It  was 
a  strange  sight — the  glowing  room  filled  with  amber 
light,  all  gold  and  fire;  the  slender  shape  in  its  floating 


256      THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTl^E  CWFFE. 


robes,  misty  vail,  and  sparkling  bridal  wreath,  crouching 
down  in  that  strange,  writhing  position — its  profusion  of 
long  ringlets  sweeping  the  carpet.  »    v 

"  The  child  has  fainted  1 "  screamed  Lady  Agnes,  "  or 
that  wretch  has  killed  her  1  " 

"  Vivia,  my  darling  1  "  cried  her  father,  flying  in  and  lift- 
ing her  in  his  arms.     "  Viviaj  my  child,  what  is  the  matter  ? " 

Lady  Agnes  was  wrong;  she  had  not  fainted.  Her 
eyes  were  wide  open,  staring  straight  before  her  with  a  fixed, 
unnatural  look  ;  her  face  was  quite  ghastly  ;  but  she  made  a 
feeble  motion  when  raised,  as  if  struggling  to  get  away. 

"  Vivia,  for  Heaven's  sake  do  not  look  so  1  Vivia,  dear- 
est, do  you  not  know  me  ? " 

The  glazed  and  fixed  intensity  slowly  left  her  eyes,  and 
they  came  back  to  his  face  with  a  look  of  unutterable  love. 

"  Dear  papa  I  " 

"  My  darling,  what  is  this  ?  What  ails  you  ?  "  he  asked, 
pushing  back  the  curls  from  the  pale  brow,  and  touching  it 
tenderly  with  his  lips. 

"  Oh,  papa,  don't  1  "  she  cried,  in  a  voice  so  full  of  sharp 
pain  that  he  scarcely  knew  it ;  and  again  the  feeble  struggle 
to  rise  from  his  arms  commenced. 

Wondering  exceedingly,  he  lifted  and  placed  her  in  a 
chair,  just  as  Jeannette  rushed  in  with  smelling-salts  and  sal 
volatile ;  and  Lady  Agnes  held  a  handkerchief  steeped  in 
("ologne  to  her  temples.  A  crowd  had  collected  by  this 
time  in  the  doorway,  and  seeing  them,  and  revived  by 
stimulants,  she  rose  up. 

"  Papa  I  Grandmamma  I  take  me  away  1  Where  is  Mr, 
Sweet  ? " 

"  Here,  Miss  Shirley,"  said  that  gentleman,  presenting 
himself  promptly,  with  a  very  pale  and  startled  face. 

The  well-bred  crowd  in  the  doorway,  seeing  by  this  time 
they  were  de  trop,  hurried  immediately  down-stairs,  and  no 
one  remained  in  the  drawing-room,  except  Vivia,  her  father 
and  grandmother,  and  Mr.  Sweet. 

"  I  knew  no  good  would  come  out  of  this  outrageous 
interview  1  "  exclaimed  Lady  Agnes,  flashing  a  look  on  her 
agent  that  might  have  scorched  him,  so  fierce  was  its  fire ; 
"  but  I  scarcely  thought  it  would  end  like  this.  What  have 
you  been  saying  to  her,  sir  ?    Out  with  it  at  once,  and  no 


DIAMOND  CUT  DIAMOND. 


257 


1! 


more  fooling,  or  I  will  have  you  thrust  out  within  the  next 
five  minutes  I " 

"  My  lady,"  hurriedly  began  Mr.  Sweet.  But  Vivia 
started  up,  all  her  strength  recovered — more  than  her  usual 
strength  for  that  matter.  In  the  height  of  her  pride  and 
power,  she  had  been  beaten  to  the-  dust ;  but  in  her  last 
effort  she  reared  herself  higher  and  prouder  than  ever  before 
in  her  life. 

"  Grandmamma,  it  is  useless  to  talk  to  him  like  this. 
I  have  heard  nothing  but  what  I  should  have  heard  before 
— what  he  should  have  told  us  all  long  ago  ! " 

"  Miss  Shirley,  you  forgot — " 

"  I  forget  nothing,  Mr.  Sweet,  In  spite  of  all  that  you 
have  said,  I  am  convinced  you  have  known  the  matter  all 
along,  and  have  been  silent  for  your  own  ends.  Those 
ends  are  not  very  difficult  to  see,  and  you  have  accom- 
plished them." 

"  But,  my  dear  Vivia,  what  are  you  talking  about  ?  "  said 
her  father,  looking  to  the  last  degree  puzzled.  "  What  does 
this  all  mean  ?  " 

"  It  means  that  I  am  not  Vivia  I  that  I  have  never  had 
a  right  to  that  name  i  that  for  twelve  years  I  have  been  an 
usurper ;  that,  in  short,  twelve  years  ago  you  were  deceived, 
and  I  am  no  daughter  of  yours  1" 

The  same  unnatural  look  that  had  been  in  her  eyes  before 
came  back,  and  jarred  in  her  tone,  whose  very  calmness  and 
steadiness  were  unnatural,  too.  For  the  time  being,  quiet 
as  she  seemed,  she  was  quite  beside  herself,  or,  as  the 
French  say,  out  of  herself,  and  could  no  more  have  shed  a 
tear,  or  uttered  a  cry,  or  made  a  scene,  than  she  could  have 
sunk  down  at  their  feet  and  died.  She  was  not  even  con- 
scious of  sorrow  at  the  revelation ;  every  nerve  seemed 
numb,  every  feeling  callous,  her  very  heart  dead.  She  only 
felt  there^was  a  dull,  heavy  pain  aching  there;  but  the 
swiftness  and  keenness  of  the  stroke  deadened  every  other 
feeling.  She  stood  before  them,  a  dazzling  figure,  and  calm 
as  if  made  of  marble ;  her  eyes  wildly  bright  alone  betokening 
momentary  insanity.  Lady  Agnes  and  the  colonel  looked 
at  her  as  if  they  thought  she  had  really  gone  insane. 

"  Vivia,  what  are  you  talking  about  ?  I  don't  under- 
stand." 


258        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTILE  CI.IFFK. 


h  . 


"  It  is  plain,  nevertheless;  and  sudden,  and  quite  un« 
expected  as  it  is,  I  believe  it  all.  It  comes  back  to  me,  now, 
what  I  had  almost  forgotten  before,  that  Barbara  was  my 
name  long,  long  ago,  and  that  she  was  Victoria  1  Oh,  I 
know  it  is  true  1     I  feel  it  in  my  heart  1 '' 

The  colonel  turned  in  desperation  to  the  lawyer.    . 

*'  Sweet,  will  you  explain  that  ?  I  do  not  comprehend  a 
word  of  what  she  is  saying." 

"  Colonel  Shirley,  I  am  sorry — I  am  very  sorry — but  it  is 
out  of  my  power  to  help  you.  The  young  lady  speaks  the 
truth.  Twelve  years  ago  you  were  deceived,  and  she  is  not 
your  daughter." 

"  Not  my  daughter  1  " 

"  No,  colonel  I  Can  you  remember  twelve  years  back, 
when  you  came  from  India  and  received  her  ?  " 

"  Certainly.     I  remember.     But  what  of  it  ?  " 

"  it  was  not  the  person  you  intrusted  her  to  that  gave  her 
to  you  back,  but  an  old  woman — was  it  not  ?  "  . 

"  Yes." 

"  Do  you  recollect  what  she  looked  like  ?  " 

"  Recollect ,'  No.  I  did  not  pay  so  much  attention  to 
her  as  that.     What  the  deuce  are  you  driving  at,  man  ?  " 

"  Only  that  you  have  seen  her  since  1  She  lives  in  Lower 
CliiTe,  she  is  Black's,  the  fisherman's,  mother — she  is  old 
Judith  I  " 

"  By  Jove  !  "  cried  the  colonel,  his  face  lighting  up  with 
sudden  intelligence,  *'  I  believe  you  are  right.  That  woman's 
face  puzzled  me  whea  I  saw  it.  I  was  sure  I  had  seen  it 
some  place  before,  but  could  uct  tell  where.  It  is  all  plain 
now.  And  it  puzzled  me  the  more,  as  she  always  seemed 
dreading  to  look  or  speak  to  me." 

"  She  had  reason  to  dread  you.  By  her  you  have  been 
most  grossly  and  basely  deceived." 

"  How  ?  "  • 

"  The  child  she  gave  you  twelve  years  ago  was  not  yours, 
but  her  own  granddaughter.  This  young  lady  is  not  your 
child  I  " 

"  What  1 "  exclaimed  the  colonel,  starting  forward  and 
turning  very  pale.  **  You  villain  1  wliat  are  you  daring  to 
say  ? '-' 

"  The  truth,  Colonel  Shirley,  told  by  her  own  lips." 


DIAMOND  CUT  DIAMOND. 


259 


"  Do  you  mean  to  say — do  you  dare  to  say  that  Vivia  is 
not  my  daughter  ? " 

"  I  do/' 

Colonel  Shirley  stopped  and  looked  at  him,  mute  with 
consternation.  The  lawyer  stood  before  him  very  pale,  but 
meeting  his  eye  without  quailing  —sincerity  and  sympathy  on 
every  feature.  , 

"  I  know  you  are  stunned  by  the  suddenness  of  the 
shock,  sir.  I  know  it  is  hard  to  believe  it  at  first ;  but  it  is 
Heaven's  truth  for  all  that !  If  you  will  only  listen  to  me 
five  minutes,  I  will  tell  you  all  I  have  told  to — "  a  pause — 
"  to  this  young  lady  1 " 

"  Go  on." 

Mr.  Sweet  went  on  accordingly.  The  story  was  listened 
to  with  profoundest  silence,  and  a  long  and  ominous  pause 
followed,  passionately  broken  at  last  by  Lady  Agnes  : 

"  It  is  a  lie,  from  beginning  to  end  !     I  will  never  believe 
a  word  of  it !     The  man  has   fabricated  the  whole  thing 
himself,  for  the  purpose  of  trumping  his  own  miserable  wife 
upon  us  I     Cliffe,  if  you  do  right,  you  will  make  the  servants  ■ 
kick  him  out !  " 

"  I  will  spare  your  servants  that  trouble.  Lady  Agnes  1 " 
said  Mr.  Sweet,  whose  face  was  perfectly  colorless,  as  he 
moved  toward  the  door ;  "  but  no  amount  of  kicking  can 
alter  the  truth  ;  and  justice  must  be  had,  though  the  heavens 
fall !  " 

"  Stop !  "  cried  Colonel  Shirley,  in  a  voice  that  made  the 
room  ring,  "  Come  back  I  What  proof  can  you  give  of  the 
truth  of  all  this,  beyond  that  of  your  word,  and  that  of  this 
old  woman,  whom  you  may  easily  have  bullied  into  the 
plot  ? " 

"  The  old  woman  is  ready  to  depose  to  the  facts,  on  oath  ; 
and  you  can  visit  the  daughter,  if  you  choose,  in  her  mad- 
house, where  she  raves  incessantly  of  her  lost  child,  and 
tells  the  story  to  every  one  who  visits  her.  Consider,  too, 
the  probabilities.  What  more  natural,  than  that  this  wretch- 
ed women  should,  with  her  own  granddaughter,  be  placed 
in  affluence,  when  she  had  it  in  her  power.  It  is  not  the 
first  time  the  same  thing  has  been  done,  and  the  young  lady 
herself  believes  it." 

Colonel  Shirley  turned  to  her;  she  was  standing  as  be- 


26o        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CI.IFFE. 


fore.  She  had  not  moved  once,  but  her  eyes  had  restlessly 
wandered  from  face  to  face  of  the  speakers. 

"  Oh,  Vivia,  can  you  believe  it  ?  " 

"  I  believe  it  all  1  "  she  said,  quite  calmly.  "  I  can  re- 
member it  with  perfect  distinctness  now.  I  could  remember 
it  all  along,  like  a  dim  dream,  that  long  ago  I  was  called 
Barbara,  and  that  I  played  with  another  child  who  was 
Victoria.     I  believe  it,  every  word  !  " 

"Another  thing.  Colonel  Shirley,"  said  Mr.  Sweet,  em- 
boldened ;  "  this  young  lady  has  been  said  to  resemble  your 
family  very  much,  because  she  is  a  blonde,  and  so  are  all 
your  race.  But  Barbara  is  the  living  image  of  your  dead 
wife.  I  remember  hec  well.  Here  is  her  portrait ;  look  at 
it  for  yourself." 

He  drew  a  miniature  out  of  his  pocket,  and  placed  it 
respectfully  in  the  Indian  officer's  hand.  It  was  a  likeness  of 
Barbara,  painted  in  ivory  while  in  London,  and  strikingly 
like  her.  Vivia,  at  the  same  instant,  drew  from  her  neck 
the  gold  chain  to  which  the  portrait  the  colonel  had  given 
her  was  attached,  and  placed  it  in  his  other  hand.  Strange 
and  striking,  indeed,  was  the  resemblance ;  the  same  oval 
contour  of  face,  with  the  deep  bloom  on  the  cheeks;  the 
same  profusion  of  dark,  waving  hair  swept  back  from  the 
broad  brow  ;  the  saii^e  large,  uplifted  eyes,  clear  and  bright ; 
the  same  characteristic  mouth  and  chin ;  the  most  striking 
difference  being  the  expression.  Barbara  looked  far  colder, 
and  sterner,  and  prouder  than  the  other.  Those  faces 
settled  the  matter.  The  colonel  was  convinced,  and  his 
face  seemed  changed  to  marble,  ere  he  looked  up. 

"  The  night  you  gave  me  this,  papa,"  said  Vivia,  calling 
him  the  old  familiar  name,  "  I  told  you  they  were  alike,  and 
you  said  it  was  a  chance  resemblance.  It  was  no  chance 
resemblance,  you  see  now  I  " 

"I  see  I     But,  oh,  Vivia "  .- 

He  leaned  against  a  tall,  ebony  cabinet,  and  covered  his 
eyes  with  his  hand.  Lady  Agnes,  who  had  been  standing  in 
dumb  bewilderment  all  the  time,  broke  out  with  a  wild  cry : 

"  Cliffe  1  Cliffe !  This  cannot  be  true  I  You  cannot  be- 
lieve it  1 " 

"Mother,  I  do  !  "  ^'    ' 

"  Dear,  dear  grandmamma  1  "  exclaimed  Vivia,  springing 


DIAMOND  CUT  DIAMOND. 


261 


it 


forward  and  catching  her  hand,  terrified  at  her  changing 
face,  "  I  will  always Oh,  papa,  come  here  1 " 

For  Lady  Agnes,  with  a  gasping  cry,  had  fallen  back 
quite  senseless.  Her  son  caught  her  in  his  arms,  and  Mr. 
Sweet  violently  rung  the  bell.  Jeannette  and  Hortense 
were  there  in  a  moment.  Colonel  Shirley  carried  her  to 
her  room,  and  was  back  directly. 

"  Well,  sir  1  "  he  said  to  Mr.  Sweet,  "  and  what  now  ?  " 

The  lawyer  looked  really  distressed  and  at  a  loss,  but 
Vivia  came  to  the  rescue  at  once. 

"  The  first  thing  to  be  done  is,  to  go  to  Lower  Cliffe  im- 
mediately, and  see  this  woman.  I  can  never  rest  now  until 
the  whole  matter  is  settled.  If  you  will  wait  for  me,  ^  ,vill 
be  ready  to  go  with  you  in  five  minutes." 

The  colonel  took  both  her  hands  in  his,  and  looked  down 
pityingly  and  tenderly  into  the  death-white  face. 

"  You  go,  Vivia  1     You  look  fit  to  die  this  moment." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  die.  I  never  was  so  strong  in  my 
life.  Don't  say  a  word,  papa,  it  is  of  no  use.  I  will  not 
keep  you  five  minutes." 

She  disappeared  in  the  rose  room  ;  and  both  gentlemen 
looked  after  her,  more  astonished  by  the  sudden  and  com- 
plete change  the  girl's  whole  nature  seemed  to  have  under- 
gone within  the  hour,  than  by  anything  that  had  happened 
that  night.  True  to  her  word,  she  was  back  in  an  incred- 
ibly short  space  of  time,  the  bridal-dress  doffed,  and  arrayed 
in  mantle  and  hat.  Again  objections  were  upon  the  colonel's 
lips;  but  they  died  out  at  sight  of  the  pale,  resolute 
face. 

"  We  must  go  out  this  way,"  she  said.  "  It  will  never  do 
to  go  down-stairs  and  pass  all  those  people." 

She  led  the  way  to  another  flight  of  stairs  at  the  opposite 
end  of  the  hall,  and  the  three  went  down,  and  out  of  one  of 
the  side  doors,  into  the  shrubbery  1  The  bells  had  ceased 
to  ring ;  but  the  fireworks  were  still  blazing  ;  the  music  still 
clanging ;  the  people  still  dancing  and  feasting — the  whole 
park  like  a  glimpse  of  fairy-land.  What  a  bitter  satire  it 
all  was  I  and  the  keenest  pang  the  colonel  had  yet  felt,  wrung 
his  heart  as  he  drew  Vivia's  arm  within  his  own,  and  hurried 
by  sundry  by-paths,  to  the  village.  Not  one  word  -  was 
spoken  on  the  way.    They  hastened  alongp  apd  soon  came 


362        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI,}    CI.IFFE. 


in  sight  of  tl  i  cottage.  A  light  shone  from  the  windows. 
The  lawyer,  without  hesitation,  opened  the  door  and  walked 
in,  followed  by  his  two  companions.  Old  Judith,  cowering 
..id  shivering,  was  in  her  usual  seat.  A  tallow  candle,  in  a 
dirty,  brass  candlestick,  flared,  and  glittered,  and  dripped 
6ig  tears  of  fat  all  over  it.  No  one  else  was  present.  At 
sight  of  them,  she  shrunk  away,  holding  out  her  arms,  with 
a  piteous  cry. 

"  Don't  take  me  away  I  Don't  send  me  to  prison !  I 
confess  it  all — all — all  1  " 

"  What  have  you  to  confess  ? "  aske^a  Colonel  Shirley, 
standing  sternly  before  her. 

"  I  changed  them,  I  did !  I  changed  them,  I  did  ;  but  I 
no'cr  meant  no  harm  I  Oh,  good  gentlemen,  have  mercy  I 
I'ni  an  old  woman  now,  and  don't  send  me  to  prison  1 " 

Vivia  bent  over  her,  with  a  face  like  that  of  an  angel. 

"  You  shall  not  be  sent  to  prison.  No  one  will  harm  you 
if  you  speak  the  truth.     Am  I  your  granddaughter  ? " 

But  the  sound  of  the  sweet  voice,  the  sight  of  the  lovely 
face,  and  the  earnest  question,  seemed  to  act  worse  than  all 
on  old  Judith ;  for  she  sprung  up  and  Hed  into  the  farthest 
corner  of  the  room,  as  she  had  done  once  before,  long  ago, 
at  sight  of  Mr.  Sweet,  holding  out  her  arms  in  a  sort  of 
horror. 

"  Speak,  woman  I  "  cried  the  colonel,  striding  forward. 
"  Speak  at  once,  and  tell  me  if  you  gave  me  your  grand- 
daughter, twelve  years  ago,  and  kept  my  child  ?  " 

"  Papa,  papa,  she  is  in  a  fit !  "  exclaimed  Vivia,  in  terror. 

It  was  true.  Whether  from  fear  or  some  other  cause,  the 
wretched  woman  had  fallen  back  fn  a  fit  of  paralysis,  her 
features  blackened  and  convulsed,  the  foam  oozing  from 
her  lips — a  horrible  sight  to  iook  on.  Of  all  the  terrible 
changes  of  that  fatal  bridal-night,  there  was  nothing  to  equal 
this ;  and  Vivia  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  turned 
away,  shuddering,  from  the  revolting  spectacle. 

"  If  ycu'U  have  the  kindness  to  knock  at  the  cottage  next 
door,"  said  Mr.  Sweet,  who  had  sprung  forward  and  lifted 
her  up,  "  I'll  place  her  on  the  bed  and  send  a  messenger 
for  the  doctor." 

The  colonel  obeyed,  quite  horror-stricken,  and  the  women 
from  the  next  house  came  flocking  in.     A  man  was  sent  v 


DIAMOND  CUT  DIAMOND. 


263 


hot  haste  to  Cliftonlea  for  a  doctor,  and  Mr.  Sweet  con- 
signed old  Judith  to  their  care. 

'*  Do  any  of  you  know  where  heir  son  is  ?  "  he  asked. 
One  of  the  women  did  ;  and,  with  numberless  courtesies  to 
her  master  and  he»"  young  lady,  told  how,  a  couple  of  hours 
before,  he  had  iU  d  the  cottage,  and,  after  staying  for 
some  ten  minu'  **s,  h  <  left  it  again  in  haste,  and  took  the 
road  for  the  ^  <»  1.  rhcii,  as  they  could  do  no  more,  the 
two  left,  and  ^  x^^sk  i  for  a  moment  in  the  moonlight. 

"  Nothing  mo  :  can  be  done  to-night,"  remarked  Mr. 
Sweet;  "an-     wi*^h  your  permission,  I  will  return  home." 

"  As  you  jy«ease ;  but  I  shall  expect  you  very  early  to- 
morrow, and — your  wife  also.  Now  that  we  have  com- 
menced, this  matter  must  be  investigated  to  the  bottom." 

Raising  his  hat  coldly  and  haughtily,  the  colonel  turned 
away,  and  Mr.  Sweet  hurried  off  rapidly  toward  his  own 
home.  It  was  late  when  he  reached  it — the  cathedral  clock 
was  striking  eleven.  Most  of  the  houses  were  silent  and 
dark ;  but  a  light  burned  in  his,  and  his  knock  at  the  door 
was  promptly  answered.  Elizabeth  looked  rather  startled  ; 
but  he  did  not  notice  that,  and  hurried  at  once  into  the 
parlor,  where  his  wife  usually  sat  up  to  all  hours.  She  was 
not  there  to-night.  And  he  ran  up  to  her  room.  She  was 
not  there  either.  But  something  else  was — something  that 
made  Mr.  Sweet  pause  on  the  threshold,  as  if  a  hand  of  iron 
had  thrust  him  back.  Over  the  bed,  over  the  floor,  over  the 
table,  clear  in  the  moonlight,  lay  all  the  gifts  he  had  ever  given 
her,  before  and  after  their  marriage.  Something  gleamed 
at  his  feet.  He  stooped  and  picked  it  up.  A  broken  ring 
— broken  into  three  or  four  pieces — but  he  knew  it  at  once. 
It  was  his  wife's  wedding-ring,  broken  and  trodden  in  the 
dust,  like  the  vows  she  had  plighted — vows  that  were  brit- 
tle as  glass — slippery  withes,  that  she  had  snapped  like 
hairs,  and  trampled  under  her  feet  as  she  had  trampled  the 
ring  that  bound  them.  He  saw  all  in  an  instant ;  and  in 
that  instant  his  face  altered  so  frightfully,  that  no  one  would 
have  known  it.  He  tore  down  the  stairs,  livid  with  fear 
and  fury,  to  find  himself  baffled  in  the  very  hour  of  triumph, 
and  clutched  Elizabeth  by  the  arm  in  a  terrible  grip. 

"  Where  is  your  mistress  ? ''  he  cried,  furiously. 

"  Please,  sir,  she  is  gone.!  "  said  the  terrified  handmaid. 


264        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CUFFB. 

'*  Gone  !     Gone  where  ?     Speak,  or  I'll  strangle  you  I  '* 

"  Please,  sir,  I  don't  know.  The  gentleman  went  away  ; 
and  the  next  I  saw,  she  went  out  the  back  way,  in  her  bon- 
net and  shawl ;  and  it  was  dark,  and  I  couldn't  see  where 
she  went." 

"  Who  was  the  gentleman  ?  Who  was  he  ?  "  Mr.  Sweet 
almost  screamed,  shaking  the  girl  until  she  writhed  in  his 
grasp. 

"  Please,  sir,  it  was  young  Mr.  Cliflfe.  Oh,  Lor',  let  go 
my  arm  1 " 

Mr.  Sweet  clapped  on  his  hat  and  rushed  out  like  a  mad- 
man. Through  the  streets  he  tore,  knocking  down  every- 
thing and  everybody  that  came  in  his  way.  He  fled  through 
Lower  ClifEe,  through  the  park-gates,  up  the  avenue,  and 
into  the  house.  Everybody  ran  screaming  before  him ;  but 
he  rushed  on  until  he  found  himself  in  the  presence  of  Sir 
Roland  Cliffe,  Colonel  Shirley,  and  the  crowd  of  unknown 
ladies  and  gentlemen. 

"  She  is  gone  I  she  is  gone  i  "  he  screamed,  frantically. 
**  They  have  both  gone  together.  My  wife  has  -eloped  with 
Leicester  Cliffe  1"  , 


V 


on- 
ere 


WHAT  LAY  ON  THK  NUN'S  GRAVE.        265 


eet 
his 


CHAPTER*  XXVII. 


go 

ad- 
;ry- 
igh 
ind 

but 
Sir 
wn 

lly. 
ith 


WHAT  LAY  ON  THE  NUN's  GRAVE. 

Within  the  memory  of  the  oldest  inhabitant,  that  pleasant- 
spoken  gentleman,  the  agent  of  Lady  Agnes  Shirley,  had 
never  been  known  to  be  otherwise  than  perfectly  self-pos- 
sessed and  equal  to  any  emergency.  The  said  legal  gentle- 
man had  imagined  himself  that  nothing  earthly  could  have 
moved  his  admirable  sang  froid ;  but,  on  the  present  occa- 
sion, both  he  and  the  oldest  inhabitant  found  their  mistake. 
Ever  afterward,  he  had  a  very  vague  and  indistinct  idea  of 
what  followed  his  startling  announcement.  He  had  a 
dim  recollection  oi  a  sense  of  suffocation  ;  of  a  roaring  sound 
in  his  ears ;  of  being  the  center  of  a  surging  sea  of  white 
and  terrified  faces  ;  of  hearing  cries  and  exclamations  ;  and, 
deep  and  high  over  all,  the  clear,  authoritative  voice  of  Colo- 
nel Shirley,  giving  some  orders.  Then  he  felt  himself  car- 
ried away  and  laid  on  a  bed ;  felt  mistily  that  some  one  was 
bleeding  him,  rnd  some  one  else  holding  ice  to  his  hot  head  ; 
of  being  relieved  from  the  unpleasant  sense  of  strangulation, 
and  at  last  of  gradually  dropping  off  into  a  profound  and 
dreamless  sleep ;  and,  being  left  alone  in  his  distant  room 
to  sleep  the  sleep  of  the  just,  he  knew  nothing  of  what  was 
going  on  in  the  other  parts  of  the  great  mansion — how  Sir 
Roland  Cliffe  had  dropped  down  in  a  fit  of  apoplexy,  and 
been  borne  away  to  another  ch  nber,  a  dreadful  sight — 
how  the  guests  had  all  dispersed  in  consternation  and  dis- 
may ;  how  the  news  had  flown  like  wildfire  through  the 
town ;  how  the  lights  had  been  put  out,  the  tenantry  sent 
home  all  agape,  Castle  Cliffe  shut  up  in  silence  and  darkness, 
an^  the  crowd  of  servants — an  hour  before  so  busy  and 
bustling — grouped  together  in  the  lower  regions,  talking  in 
hushed  and  awe-struck  whispers,  and  never  thinking  of  bed. 
How  Colonel  Shirley  was  pacing  ceaselessly  up  and  dowa 


266       THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CLIFFS. 


the  lower  hall,  and  unable  to  stop  for  one  instant ;  how  the 
head  doctor  of  the  town  was  flying  incessantly  from  Sir 
Roland  to  Lady  Agnes  ;  and  how  she  who  should  have  felt  it 
all  the  most  was  the  calmest  and  most  collected  person  in  the 
house.  In  a  simple  morning-wrapper,  all  her  bright  curls 
gathered  up  and  confined  in  a  net,  Yivia  bent  over  Lady 
Agnes,  very  pale,  very  quiet,  very  calm,  obeying  all  the  doc- 
tor's directions  implicitly ;  and  when  at  last  that  lady  con- 
sented to  come  out  of  her  hysterics,  swallowed  an  opiate, 
and  fell  asleep,  the  ex-bride  left  her  to  the  care  of  a  nurse, 
and  went  away  to  her  own  room — her  own  pretty  rose  room 
— wherein  she  had  so  often  slept  the  innocent  sleep  of  care- 
less girlhood — that  she  never,  never  could  sleep  more.  Over 
the  mantel,  looked  down  on  her  still  the  sweet,  majestic 
face,  encircled  by  the  golden  halo  ;  and  Vivia  dropped  down 
before  it,  her  face  hidden  in  her  hands,  and  prayed  as  only 
those  pray  who  see  the  whole  world  darkening  around  them, 
and  no  light  but  the  light  of  Heaven.  Long  ago,  when  a 
little  child,  she  had  knelt  before  the  great  altar  in  her  dear 
old  convent,  in  sunny  France,  and  prayed  as  she  was  doing 
now,  and  "  Oh  !  "  cried  Vivia*s  heart,  "  if  I  had  only  died 
then  1  " 

And  Mr.  Sweet,  sleeping  serenely,  as  all  good  men  should 
do,  knew  nothing  of  all  this,  and  never  woke  until  the  sun 
mer  sunbeams  were  glancing  in  through  the  curtains.  Then 
he  awoke  with  a  jerk  from  some  unpleasant  dream,  and  rose 
slowly  up  on  his  elbow,  a  little  confused  and  bewildered 
still.  His  right  arm  felt  stiff  and  sOre,  and  looking  down, 
he  saw  it  was  bandaged,  and  the  bandage  stained  with  blood. 
That  recalled  the  bleeding,  and  the  bleeding  recalled  the 
rest ;  and  feeling  his  head  a  little  hot  and  giddy  still,  he  got 
out  of  bed,  filled  a  basin  with  cold  water,  and  plunged  his 
cranium  into  it.  This  cooling  process  had  the  desired  ef- 
fect— having  mopped  his  yellow  hair  dry  with  a  towel,  he 
felt  he  was  his  own  collected,  clear-headed  self  again,  and 
sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  to  dress  himself  slowly, 
and  think  over  all  that  had  happened.  To  sleep  over  a 
matter  sometimes  changes  its  complexion  very  materially ; 
and  Mr.  Sweet's  first  idea  was  one  of  wonder,  how  he  ever 
could  have  been  such  a  ninny  as  to  be  overcome  for  a  mo- 
ment by  the  little  affair  of  last  night.     It  was  true,  all  the 


f 


WHAT  I,AY  ON  THE  NUN'S  GRAVE.        267 

plans  he  had  been  forming  and  cherishing  so  long  were 
knocked  in  the  head  at  one  blow ;  but  he  could  still  form 
new  plans,  and  nobody  knew  better  than  he  that  all  is  not 
lost  that  is  in  danger.  His  wife,  Colonel  Shirley's  daughter 
and  heiress,  had  eloped,  to  be  sure,  but  there  was  yet  a  pos- 
sibility that  she  might  be  found  again  and  reclaimed  ;  and, 
for  his  part,  he  was  a  sufficiently  good  Christian  to  overlook 
the  little  episode  and  take  her  back  again,  as  if  nothing  had 
happened.  Even  should  she  refuse  to  come  back — it  would 
be  just  like  Barbara  to  do  it — that  did  not  alter  in  the  least 
the  facts  of  the  case,  she  was  none  the  less  his  wife  and  the 
heiress  of  Castle  Cliffe.  The  only  thing  he  blamed  himself 
for  was,  not  having  told  her  all  beforehand.  It  might  have 
prevented  this  disagreeable  contretemps.  But  it  was  too  late 
now,  and 

Here  Mr.  Sweet's  meditations  were  cut  short  by  a  rap  at 
the  door. 

*'  Come  in  1  '*  he  called  ;  and  Hurst,  Colonel  Shirley's 
valet,  came  in  accordingly. 

"Ah,  good  morning,  Hurst!"  said  Mr.  Sweet,  blandly, 
hastily  putting  the  finishing  touches  to  his  toilet. 

Mr.  Hurst  bowed  respectfully. 

"  Good  morning,  sir.  How  do  you  find  yourself  this 
morning  ?  " 

•*  Much  better,  thank  you — quite  well,  I  may  say." 

**  Then  my  master  sends  his  compliments,  and  begs  you 
will  come  to  him  immediately." 

Mr.  Sweet  being  quite  as  anxious  to  see  the  colonel  as 
that  gentleman  corld  possibly  be  to  see  him,  needed  no 
second  invitation'  and  followed,  the  valet  with  alacrity  through 
various  halls,  dov>  a-stairs  and  iito  the  morning-room.  Colo- 
nel Shirley  was  \bere,  di-essea  is  on  the  preceding  evening, 
walking  restlessly  Up  and  down  still,  and  looking  very  pale, 
very  stern.  He  stopped  and  glanced  searchingly  at  the  law- 
yer's melancholy  face. 

"  Are  you  better  ? "  he  asked,  briefly. 

"  Quite  recovered,  thank  you.  I  scarcely  know  yet  how 
it  happened,  or  what  was  the  matter  with  me." 

"  A  rush  of  blood  to  the  head,  or  something  that  way.  I 
hope  you  remember  the  extraordinary  announcement  you 
came  rushing  here  with,  just  as  you  were  taken  ?  " 


•t 


268      THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CLIFFE. 


t.ii 


Mr.  Sweet  raised  a  pair  of  reproachful  eyes. 

"  It  would  be  still  more  extraordinary,  colonel,  if  I  could 
ever  forget  it.  When  a  man's  wife  elopes,  it  is  not  likely  ta 
slip  from  his  memory  in  a  single  night."  ^ 

"  It  is  quitr^  true,  then  ? " 

"  Entirely  1"  *  ' 

"  And  Barbara  has  fled  ?  "  , 

"She  has." 

"  And  with  Leicester  Cliff e  ?  " 

"Yes."  ■;..'./ 

Mr.  Sweet  put  his  handkerchief  to  his  eyes,  and  turned 
awav  to  conceal  his  emotion. 

"  How  did  you  discover  it  ?  What  proof  have  you  of  it  ?  '* 
continued  the  colonel,  rapidly,  casting  a  somewhat  cynical 
eye  on  his  bereaved  companion. 

"  There  can  be  no  doubt  of  the  fact,  colonel,"  said  the 
lawyer,  in  a  tremulous  tone.  "  I  wish  to  Heaven  there  was ! 
My  wife  has  fled ;  and  Leicester  Cliffe  is  a  traitor  and  vil- 
lain!" 

"  Be  good  enough,  sir,  to  keep  to  the  point.  What  proof 
have  you  of  what  you  say  ?  " 

"  Colonel,  last  night,  when  I  went  home,  my  servant — we 
keep  only  one — met  me  at  the  door,  and  told  me  her  mis- 
tress had  left  the  house,  and  was  not  returned ;  that  Mr. 
Leicester  Cliffe  had  been  there  with  her  all  the  evening,  and 
that  his  departure  had  preceded  hers  but  a  few  moments.  I 
went  over  the  house  in  search  of  her.  In  her  room  I  found 
scattered  about  all  I  had  ever  given  her — her  wedding-ring 
i^ioken  and  lying  on  the  ground  among  the  rest.  There 
was  no  longer  a  doubt ;  and,  almost  beside  myself,  I  came 
'here  with  the  news." 

"  And  that  is  all  the  proof  you  have  that  they  have  fled 
together  ? "  .  •  '.  ' 

"  I  scarcely  think  that  any  more  is  required.  What  else 
could  have  caused  his  absence  last  night  ? " 

"  But  why  in  Heaven's  name  should  he  elope  with  your 
wife  ? "  exclaimed  the  colonel,  impatiently.  "  What  did  he 
care  for  Barbara  ?  " 

"  A  great  deal.  Colonel  Shirley  1  "  said  Mr.  Sweet,  quietly, 
"  since  he  was  in  love  with  her,  and  promised  to  marry  her, 
before  ever  he  saw  your  daugh — I  mean  Miss  Vivia  1  " 


>,; 


I 


^ 


WllAT  LAY  ON  THE  NUN'S  GRAVE.        269 

Colonel  Shirley  stopped  in  his  excited  walk,  and  looked 
at  him  with  so  much  astonishment  that  Mr.  Sweet  felt  called 
upon  to  explain. 

"  Last  May  day,  sir,  he  saw  her.  She  was  the  May 
Queen ;  and  he  fell  in  love  with  her,  I  take  it,  on  the  spot. 
From  that  time,  until  he  went  to  London,  they  were  insepa- 
rable. The  people  in  Lower  CliflFe  could  tell  you  the  moon- 
light walks  on  the  shore,  and  the  sails  on  the  water  ;.  and  the 
lodge-keepers  could  tell  you  many  a  tale  of  their  rambles  in 
the  park  under  the  trees.  Sir  Roland  knew  it  all ;  but  he 
took  good  care  to  keep  silent ;  and  I  believe,  but  for  him, 
Mr.  Leicester  would  never  have  accepted  my  lady's  invita- 
tion, and  gone  up  that  time  to  London." 

Still  the  colonel  stood  silently  looking  at  him,  in  stern 
inquiry. 

"  The  evening  before  he  went,  sir,  I  chanced  to  be  stroll- 
ing about  under  the  trees  down  there,  near  the  Nun's  Grave, 
when  I  happened  to  hear  voices  ;  and,  looking  through  the 
branches,  I  saw  Mr.  Leicester  and  Barbara  together,  ex- 
changing vows  of  love  and  promising  everlasting  fidelity. 
He  told  her — he  almost  swore— he  would  marry  her  secretly 
when  he  came  back ;  and  they  would  fly  to  America,  or  some 
other  distant  place  ;  and,  then,  not  wishing  to  be  an  eaves- 
dropper, I  hurried  away  from  the  spot." 

"  Well,"  said  Colonel  Shirley,  his  stern  eyes  still  immov- 
ably fixed  on  his  companion,  "  and  how  came  Barbara  to 
marry  you  after  this  ? " 

"  For  spite,  sir  I  A  woman  would  sell  her  soul  for  spite  ; 
and  I,  I  loved  her  so  well  that  was  only  too  happy  to  marry 
her,  no  matter  what  was  the  motive." 

Again  Mr.  Sweet's  handkerchief  came  in  requisition ;  and 
Colonel  Shirley  seized  the  bell-rope  and  rung  a  violent  peal. 
The  valet  appeared. 

"  Hurst,  bring  my  breakfast  immediately,  and  order  round 
my  horse  and  another  for  this  gentleman." 

Hurst  flew  to  obey.  The  lawyer  used  his  handkerchief, 
and  the  colonel  strode  up  and  down  unceasingly,  until  break- 
fast appeared.  Mr.  Sweet  was  invited  to  take  a  seat,  which 
he  did  ;  and  despite  his  illness  and  his  bereavement,  drank 
the  strong  coffee  and  ate  the  buttered  waffles  with  infinite 
relish.     But  the  colonel  neither  ate  nor  drank  j  and,  throw- 


1 


270      THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CUFFE.  ^ 

ing  a  large  military  cloak  over  his  evening  costume,  imper- 
atively ordered  him  to  come  out,  mount,  and  follow  him. 

"  Where  to,  sir  ?  **  Mr.  Sweet  took  the  liberty  of  in- 
quiring. 

"  To  your  house,  sir  "  the  colonel  answered,  sternly. 

"  You  do  not  doubt  what  I  told  you,  colonel  ?  " 

"  I  shall  investigate  the  matter  myself,"  reiterated  the 
colonel,  coldly. 

"  And  after  that,  sir  ?  "  again  Mr.  Sweet  ventured. 

"  After  that,  sir  ?"  cried  the  colonel,  turning  his  paleface 
and  flashing  eyes  full  on  his  companion.  "  After  that,  I 
shall  search  for  them,  if  it  be  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  1  And 
if,  when  they  are  found,  things  should  turn  out  as  I  more 
than  half  suspect,  you,  Mr.  Sweet,  had  better  look  to  your- 
self I     Now,  come  on  1  " 

With  this  last  abrupt  order,  given  in  the  same  ringing  tone 
of  command  with  which,  in  former  days,  he  had  headed 
many  a  gallant  charge,  the  colonel  dashed  spurs  into  his 
horse  and  galloped  down  the  avenue.  Mr.  Sweet  followed 
and  kept  up  to  him  as  best  he  could,  in  silence  ;  for  he  had 
enough  to  do  to  keep  up  within  sight  of  his  reckless  leader, 
without  thinking  of  talking.  Early  as  the  hour  was,  Clif- 
tonlea  was  up  and  doing;  and  the  people  stared  with  all 
their  eyes  as  the  two  riders  dashed  past.  The  lawyer's  house 
v/as  soon  gained,  and  the  Indian  officer  was  storming  at 
the  knocker  as  if  he  thought  it  was  an  enemy's  fortress. 
Elizabeth  answered  the  appalling  clatter,  so  terrified  by  the 
noise  that  she  was  fit  to  drop ;  and  the  colonel  strode  in  and 
caught  her  by  the  arm. 

"Is  this  the  servant  you  spoke  of,  Mr.  Sweet  ? " 

"  This  is  the  servant,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Sweet. 

And  Elizabeth's  mouth  flew  open,  and  her  complexion 
turned  sea-green,  with  terror. 

"  My  good  girl,  you  need  not  be  frightened.  I  am  not 
going  to  hurt  you.  I  merely  want  you  to  answer  me  a  few 
questions.  What  time  did  your  master  leave  home  yester- 
day afternoon  ?  " 

"  Please,  sir,"  gasped  Elizabeth,  quaking  all  over,  "  it 
were  nigh  onto  seven  o'clock.  I  know  I  was  in  the  h^ll 
when  he  went  out,  and  the  clock  struck  seven  a  little 
after." 


1*1 


\ 


m 


WHAT  I,AY  ON  THK  NUN'S  GRAVK.        271 

"  Was  your  mistress  at  home  then  ?  " 

''  Please,  sir,  yes.     She  was  in  the  parlor." 

"  Who  was  with  her  ?  " 

"  Please,  sir,  nobody.     It  was  after  that  he  come." 

"  Who  came  ?  " 

"  Young  Mr.  Cliffe,  please,  sir — Mr.  Leicester." 

**  How  long  did  he  stay  ?  " 

"  Please,  sir,  a  good  long  while.  Him  and  missis  was 
a-talking  in  the  parlor ;  and  it  was  after  dark  when  he  went 
away." 

"  Did  yom*  mistress  go  with  him  ?     Did  he  go  alone  ?  " 

"  Please,  sir,  yes.  And  missis  she  come  out  all  dressed 
in  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  a  little  after,  and  went  out  the  back 
Avay  ;  and  she  ain't  never  come  back  since." 

"  Do  you  know  which  way  she  went  ?  " 

"  Please,  sir,  no ;  I  don't.  I  don't  know  nothing  else.  I 
declare  for't,"  said  Elizabeth,  putting  her  apron  to  her 
countenance,  and  beginning  to  whimper. 

It  was  quite  evident  she  did  not.  The  colonel  dropped  a 
gold  coin  into  her  hand,  went  out,  remounted,  followed  in 
silence  still  by  Elizabeth's  master. 

"  To  Cliffewood  I  "  was  the  second  sententious  order. 

And  again  away  they  galloped  over  "  brake,  bush  and 
scar,"  to  the  great  mental  and  physical  discomfort  of  one  of 
them  at  least. 

A  rumor  of  the  extraordinary  events  going  on  at  the 
castle  hall  reached  Cliffewood,  and  a  flock  of  curious  serv- 
ants met  them  as  they  entered.  The  colonel  singled  out 
one  of  them — Sir  Roland's  confidential ;  and  he  followed  the 
two  gentlemen  into  the  drawing-room. 

"  Edwards,"  he  began,  "  what  time  did  Mr.  Leicester 
leave  here  for  the  castle,  yesterday  ?  Sir  Roland,  you  know, 
came  early,  and  he  remained  behind." 

"  I  know,  sir.  It  was  about  sunset  Mr.  Leicester  left,  I 
think." 

"  He  was  out  all  day.  Did  he  dress,  or  did  he  leave  in 
what  he  had  worn  previously  ?  "  •    . 

'•No,  sir.     He  was  in  full  evening  dress."  ^ 

,      "  Did  he  walk  or  ride  ? "  ^  v 

"He  left  here  on  foot,  sir."  v         , 

"  Do  you  know  which  way  he  took  ? 


^<  I 


» 


»» 


'ik: 


1^^ 


m 


272      THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTl^E  C%IFFE. 

"  Yes,  sir.     He  took  the  road  direct  to  the  town."   :..     , 

"And  you  have  not  seen  or  heard  of  him  since?" 
,  "No,  sir." 

The  colonel  turned  as  abruptly  as  before,  and  strode  outt 
followed  still  by  the  mute  lawyer. 

"  To  Lower  Cliffe  1  "  came  again  the  order. 

And  once  more  they  were  dashing  through  the  town,  and 
on  and  on,  until  they  reached  the  road  that  turned  oflE  to- 
ward the  village.  Here  the  horses  were  left  at  the  Cross 
Roads  Inn — an  inn  where,  many  a  time  and  oft,  Leicester 
Cliffe  had  left  his  gallant  gray  when  going  to  visit  Barbara ; 
and  they  struck  down  the  rocky  footpath  that  led  to  the 
cottage.  The  wonderful  news  had  created  as  much  sensa- 
tion in  the  village  as  the  town,  and  curious  faces  came  to 
the  doors  and  windows  as  they  passed,  and  watched  them 
eagerly  until  they  vanished  within  Peter  Black's  roof-tree. 
The  cottage  looked  unusually  tidy,  and  three  gentlemen 
stood  near  one  of  the  windows  conversing  earnestly ;  and  in 
those  three  the  nev/comers  recognized  :  Mr.  Jones,  the  town 
apothecary  ;  Squire  Channing,  the  village  magistrate,  and  in 
the  third,  no  less  an  individual  than  the  bishop  of  Cliftonlea. 
This  latter  august  personage  held  in  his  hand  a  paper  which 
he  had  been  diligently  perusing ;  and  with  it  in  his  hand,  he 
came  forward  to  address  the  colonel.  « 

"  Ah  1  you've  come  at  last  1  I  feared  our  messenger 
would  scarcely  find  you  in  time." 

"  What  messenger  ?  " 

"  Joe,  the  game-keeper's  son.     Did  you  not  see  him  ? " 

"  No.  '  What  did  he  want  of  me  ? " 

"  That  wretched  old  woman,"  said  the  bishop,  jerking  his 
thumb  over  his  shoulder  toward  the  door  of  Judith's  bed- 
chamber, "  recovered  her  speech  and  her  senses  during  the 
night,  as  many  do  at  the  point  of  death ;  for  she  is  dying, 
and  became  frantic  in  her  entreaties  for  a  clergyman  and  a 
magistrate.  Considering  the  matter,  I  could  do  no  less  than 
come  myself ;  Mr.  Channing  accompanied  me,  and  Mr. 
Jones  followed  shortly  after,  but  too  latr  *o  be  of  any  serv- 
ice,    The  woman  is  at  the  point  of  death." 

"  And  what  did  she  want  ?  " 

"  To  make  a  dying  deposition  concerning  the  truth  of 
the  story  Mr.   Sweet  told   you  last  night.     She   stated   the 


h 


guilt^' 


WHAT  I.AY  ON  THE  NUN'S  GRAVE.        273 

case  clearly  and  distinctly.  Here  it  is  in  black  and  white ; 
and  she  was  most  anxious  to  see  you ;  and  Providence  must 
have  sent  you,  since  Joe  has  not  succeeded.  Come  in  at 
once.     There  is  no  time  to  lose." 

The  colonel  followed  him  into  the  chamber.  Old  Judith 
lay  on  the  bed,  her  eyes  restless,  and  the  gray  shadow  of 
coming  death  over  her  face.  The  prelate  bent  over  her  in 
his  urbane  way. 

"  My  good  woman,  here  is  Colonel  Shirley." 

The  eyes,  dulling  in  death,  turned  from  their  restless 
wandering  and  fixed  themselves  on  the  colonel's  face. 

"  It  is  true  1  "  she  whispered,  he  irsely.     "  It  is  all  true ! 
I  am  sorry  for  it  now,  but  I  changed  them ;  Barbara  is  your 
child.     It  drove  her   mad,  and  I'm  dying  with  it  all  on  my 
,  soul!" 

She  stopped  speaking  suddenly  ;  he  face  turned  livid ; 
the  death-rattle  sounded  in  her  throat ,  she  half  sprung  up, 
and  fell  back  dead  I  Colonel  Shirley  stood  for  a  moment, 
horror-struck,  and  then  turned  and  hastily  left  the  room.  If 
one  Ungering  do  ht  remained  0:1  his  mind,  concerning  the 
truth  of  the  stc 

"  She  has  g< 
panions.     "  It 

They  all  Ir  the  house,  and  bent  their  steps  in  the  di- 
rection of  th  I  .rk-gates.  The  colonel,  the  bishop,  and  the 
magistrate,  going  first ;  the  lawyer  and  the  apothecary  fol- 
lowing. 

"  Have  you  ^een  this  old  woman's  son — this  Peter  Black  ? " 
asked  Colonel  Shirley,  as  they  walked  along. 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Channing.  ♦'  The  nurse  mentioned  that 
he  had  not  been  seen  since  yesterday  evening." 

"  Is  it  true  ^Lout  the  elopement  ? "  asked  the  bic,hop,  in  a 
low  voice. 

"Quite  true." 

"  How  dreadful  it  all  is,  and  yet  how  calmly  you  bear  it, 
Cliffe  ?  " 

The  colonel  turned  on  him  a  look — a  look  that  answered 
him  without  words — and  they  walked  on.  in  silence  When 
the  bishop  spoke  again,  if  was  in  an  uncommonly  subdued 
tone. 


it  had  all  van '.shed  ?iow. 
i,"  said  the  bishcp,  addressing  his  corn- 
useless  remaining  longer    here.     Let  us 


'.'!  M 


\^ 


\m 


%  III 
if  ■ 


274        I'HE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CUFFE. 


"How  are  Sir  Roland  and  Lady  Agnes,  this  morning?  I 
should  have  been  up  to  see,  but  for——" 

The  sentence  was  never  finished.  A  yell  broke  the  si- 
lence— a  yell  to  which  an  Indian  war-whoop  was  as  nothing; 
and  out  from  among  the  trees  burst  Joe,  the  game-keeper's 
son,  with  a  face  of  ghastly  whiteness,  hair  standing  on  end, 
and  eyes  starting  from  their  sockets.  At  sight  of  them,  an- 
other yell  which  he  was  setting  up  seemed  to  freeze  on  his 
lips,  and  he,  himself,  stood  stock-still,  rooted  to  the  spot. 
At  the  same  instant,  Squire  Chaniiing  set  up  an  echoing 
shout : 

*'  There  goes  Tom  Shirley  I     Look  how  he  runs  I  " 

They  looked ;  bursting  out  from  the  trees,  in  another  di- 
rection, was  a  tall  figure,  its  black  hair  flowing.  It  vanished 
again,  almost  as  soon  as  it  appeared,  into  a  by-path  ;  and 
they  turned  their  attention  to  the  seemly  horror-struck  young 
person  before  them. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  What  has  frightened  you,  my 
boy  ? ''  asked  the  bishop. 

"  Oh,  my  Lord  1  Oh,  colonel,  oh,  colonel  1 "  gasped  Joe, 
almost  paralyzed,  "  he's  dead  I  he's  killed  I  he's  murdered  1 " 

The  three  gentlemen  looked  at  each  other,  and  then,  in 
wonder,  at  Joe. 

"  He's  up  here  on  the  Nun's  Grave ;  he  is,  with  his  head 
all  sniashed  to  pieces.     Come,  quick,  and  see  1  " 

They  followed  him  up  the  avenue,  into  the  by-path,  under 
tlie  gloomy  elms,  to  the  forsaken  spot.  A  figure  lay  there, 
on  its  face,  its  hat  off,  a  terrible  gash  on  the  back  of  the 
head,  where  it  had  been  felled  down  from  behind — its  own 
fair  brown  hair,  and  the  grass  arounu,  soaked  in  blood. 
Though  the  face  was  hidden  in  the  dust,  the  moment  they 
saw  it  they  knew  who  it  was,  and  all  recoiled  as  if  struck 
back  by  a  giant  hand.  It  was  the  colonel  who  recovered 
first,  and,  stooping,  he  raised  the  body  and  turned  the  face 
to  the  garish  sunlight.  The  blood  that  had  rained  down 
from  the  gash  in  the  head  had  discolored  it  all,  but  they 
knew  it — knew  that,  on  the.  spot  where  he  had  prayed  for  a 
short  life  if  he  proved  false,  Leicester  Cliffe  lay  cold  and 
deadl 


< 


MAISON  DK  DEUIL* 


875 


SI- 


>■ "  '  '^ 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

MAISON    DE    DEl'IL. 

Murdered  !  there  could  be  no  doubt  of  it — this,  then, 
was  whei  :  '  e  bridegroom  was.  While  they  had  been  ac- 
cusing him  in  their  thoughts,  and  vowing  future  vengeance, 
he  had  been  lying  here,  assassinated  by  some  unknown 
hand.  The  faces  of  all  had  whitened  with  horror  at  the 
sight;  but  Colonel  Shirley,  whose  stern  calmness  nothing 
seemed  able  to  move,  lifted  his  head  an  instant  after,  with  a 
face  that  looked  as  if  changed  to  stone." 

"  A  horrible  murder  has  been  done  here  I  My  boy," 
turning  to  Joe,  whose  teeth  were  chattering  in  his  head, 
"  how  and  when  did  you  discover  this  ?  " 

"  It  were  just  now,  sir,"  replied  Joe,  keeping  far  from  the 
body,  and  looking  at  it  in  intensest  terror.  "  My  lord  and 
Mr.  Channing,  they  sent  me  up  to  the  castle  a-looking  for 
you,  sir,  and  you  waju't  there ;  and  I  was  a-coming  back  to 
tell  them,  so  I  was,  f  own  this  way,  which  it's  a  short  cut  to 
Lower  Cliffe  ;  and  as  I  got  here,  I  saw  a  man  standing  up 
and  looking  down  on  this  here,  which  it  were  Mr.  Tom 
Shirley,  as  I  knowed  the  minute  I  seen  him.  Then,  sir,  he 
turned  round,  and  when  he  saw  me,  he  ran  away ;  and  then 
I  saw  him  lying  there,  all  over  blood ;  and  I  got  frightened 
and  ran  away,  too ;  and  then  I  met  you ;  and  that's  every- 
thing I  know  about  it." 

"  Can  Tom  Shirley  be  the  murderer  ? "  asked  the  bishop, 
in  a  low,  deep  voice. 

"  Circumstances,  at  least,  are  strong  enough  against  him 
to  warrant  his  arrest,"  said  Mr.  Channing.  "  As  a  magis- 
trate, I  feel  it  my  duty  to  go  in  search  of  him  before  he 
escapes." 

He  hurried  away,  as  he  spoke ;  and  the  colonel,  taking 
off  his  large  military  cloak,  spread  it  on  the  ground. 


1 


^ 


m 


r 


276       THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTILE  CI^IFFE. 

"  Help  me  to  place  the  body  on  this,"  he  said,  quietly ; 
and,  with  the  assistance>of  Mr.  Sweet,  the  still-bleeding  form 
was  laid  upon  it,  and  covered  from  the  mocking  sunlight  in 
its  folds.  Then,  at  another  motion  from  the  colonel,  the 
apothecary  and  the  lawyer  lifted  it  by  the  lower  ends,  while 
he  himself  took  the  head,  and  they  slowly  turned  with  their 
dreadful  burden  toward  the  house.  Joe  followed  at  a  re- 
spectful  distance,  still  with  an  excessively  scared  and  horri- 
fied visage.  .^ 

Mr.  Channing  had,  meantime,  been  making  an  arrest. 
Getting  over  the  ground  with  tremendous  sweeps  of  limb, 
he  had  nearly  reached  the  house,  thinking  to  call  the  servants 
to  aid  him  in  his  search,  when  he  espied  a  tall,  dark  figure 
leaning  against  a  tree,  one  arm  thrown  over  a  high  branch, 
and  the  head,  with  all  its  dark  curls,  bare  to  the  morning 
breeze,  lying  thereon.  The  magistrale  went  up  and  dropped 
his  hand  heavily  on  the  shoulder  of  the  drooping  figure,  and 
Tom  Shirley  lifted  his  face  and  looked  at  him.  What  a 
face  1  What  a  change  in  a  few  brief  days  !  Usually  it  was 
red  enough  and  bold  enough  ;  but  now  it  was  almost  ghastly 
in  its  thinness  and  pallor.  The  face  of  the  murdered  man 
could  scarcely  have  been  more  corpse-like — the  black  hair 
heightening  the  effect,  as  it  hung  damp  and  disordered  around 
it,  and  the  black  eyes  looking  unnaturally  large  and  sunken. 
Nothing,  Mr.  Channing  thought,  but  remorse  for  some 
enacted  crime  could  have  wrought  so  vivid  a  change ;  but 
then,  perhaps,  Mr.  Channing  had  never  been  in  love — at  all 
events,  so  crazily  in  love — and  been  jilted,  like  po(5r  Tom 
Shirley. 

"  Well  1  "  said  Tom,  in  a  voice  as  hollow,  and  changed, 
and  unnatural,  as  his  face. 

"  Mr.  Shirley,  it  is  my  painful  duty  to  arrest  you." 

Tom  sprung  erect  as  if  some  one  had  struck  him.  * 

"  Arrest  me  I     What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Shirley,  I  am  very  sorry  ;  but  duty  must  be  fulfilled, 
nd  it  is  mine  to  make  you  my  prisoner." 

"  Your  prisoner,  sir !  "  exclaimed  Tom,,  in  something  like 
his  customary  tone,  shaking  him  off  as  if  he  had  been  a  baby. 
"  On  what  charge  ? " 
-  "  On  that  of  murdering  your  cousin,  Leicester  Cliffe." 

Tom  stood  perfectly  still — stunned.     A  volley  of  fierce 


MAISON  DE  DEUII^ 


277 


words,  that  had  been  rising  hotly  to  his  lips,  seemed  to 
freeze  there.  His  face  turned  dark-red,  and  then  whiter 
than  before,  and  the  arm  he  had  raised  dropped  powerless 
by  his  side.  Whatever  the  emotion  which  prompted  the  dis- 
play, the  magistrate  set  it  down  to  one  cause,  guilt ;  and 
again  laid  his  hand  firmly  on  the  young  man's  shoulder. 

"  I  regret  it,  Tom,  but  it  must  be  done.  I  beg  you  will 
not  offer  any  resistance,  but  will  come  with  me  peaceably  to 
the  house.     Ah  I  there  they  go  with  the  body  now  1 " 

Tom  compressed  his  lips  and  lifted  up  his  head. 

"  I  will  go  with  you,  Mr.  Channing.  It  matters  very  little 
what  becomes  of  me  one  way  or  the  other  !  " 

He  raised  his  hat  from  the  ground,  to  which  it  had  fallen  ; 
and  they  walked  on  together,  side  by  side.  The  body  was 
borne  before  them  into  the  morning-room,  and  through  that 
into  a  smaller  one,  used  by  Vivia  as  a  studio.  It  was  strewn 
with  easels,  blank  canvas,  busts,  and  lay  figures ;  and  on  a 
low  couch  therein  their  burden  was  laid.  The  cloak  was  re- 
moved. The  colonel  sent  one  of  the  servants  in  search  of 
the  physician,  who  had  remained  all  night  in  the  house, 
stc-.ily  warning  the  rest  not  to  let  a  word  of  the  event  reach 
the  ears  of  Lady  Agnes  or  the  young  ladies.  Hurst  brought 
in  warm  water  and  sponge,  and  the  blood  was  washed  off 
the  dead  face.  It  was  perfectly  calm — there  was  no  dis- 
tortion to  mar  its  almost  womanly  beauty,  or  to  show  that 
he  had  suffered  in  the  last  struggle.  The  blue  eyes  were 
wide  open  in  the  cold  glaze  of  death  ;  and  the  bishop,  bend- 
ing down,  had  just  closed  them  reverently,  as  the  physician 
came  in.  The  examination  that  followed  was  brief.  The 
blow  had  evidently  been  given  by  a  thick  club,  and  he  had 
been  struck  but  once — death  following  almost  instantaneously. 
The  deed,  too,  from  the  appearance  of  the  wound,  must 
have  been  committed  some  hours  previously  ;  for  the  blood 
on  his  clothes  was  thickly  clotted  and  dry.  In  silence  they 
left  the  studio,  and  gathered  together  in  the  morning-room. 
The  colonel  had  warned  the  servants  to  keep  quiet ;  but 
who  ever  knew  warnings  to  avail  in  such  cases  ?  Half  a 
dozen  gentlemen,  the  guests  who  had  remain*"'  in  the  house 
the  previous  night,  had  been  told,  and  v  o  rhere  already. 
The  magistrate  had  taken  a  seat  of  authority,  and  prepared 
to  hold  a  sort  of  inquest  and   investigate  the   matter.     The 


\l 


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•    4 

1. 


; 


878        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTILE  ClylFFE. 

■  ♦ 
prisoner  stood  near  a  window,  drawn  up  to  his  full  height, 

with  folded  arms,  looking  particularly  proud,  and  especially 

scornful,  guarded  by  Messrs.  Sweet  and  Jones.     The  colonel 

took  a  seat,  and  motioned  the  rest  to  follow  his  example  ; 

and  Mr.  Channing  desired    Hurst,  keeping  sentry  at  the 

door,  to  call  in  Joe. 

Joe,  standing  in  the  hall,  telling  his  story  over  and  over 
again  to  a  curious  crowd  of  servants,  came  in,  looking  scared 
as  ever,  and  told  his  tale  once  more,  keeping  to  the  same 
facts  steadily,  in  spite  of  any  amount  of  cross-questioning. 
When  this  first  witness  was  dismissed,  the  bishop  turned  to 
the  prisoner. 

"  Tom,  what  have  you  to  say  to  all  this  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  my  lord." 

"  Is  what  this  boy  says  true  ?  Did  he  really  discover  you 
by  the  body  ?  " 

"  He  did." 

"  And  why,  if  you  are  not  guilty,  should  you  fly  at  his 
approach  ? " 

*<  I  did  nothing  of  the  sort.  Joe  makes  a  mistake  there ; 
for  I  never  saw  him  at  all." 

"  And  how  do  you  account  for  your  presence  there  ? " 

"  Very  simply,  my  lord.  I  chanced  to  be  walking  through 
the  grounds,  and  came  to  that  particular  spot  by  mere  ac- 
cident." 

"  How  long  had  you  been  there  when  Joo  discovered 
you  ? " 

"  I  did  not  remain  five  minutes  altogether.  I  saw  and  rec- 
ognized who  it  was ;  and  when  I  recovered  from  the  first 
shock  of  horror,  I  turned  and  fled  to  give  the  alarm." 

Mr.  Channing  leaned  over  and  spoke  in  a  low  voice  to 
Colonel  Shirley. 

"  Some  one  told  me,  when  here  last  evening,  that  the 
prisoner  has  been  absent  for  several  days — is  it  true  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Mr.  Shirley,"  said  the  magistrate,  speaking  aloud,  "  you 
have  been  absent  for  the  past  week — will  you  inform  us 
where  ? " 

"  I  have  been  absent,"  said  Tom,  coldly.  **  I  have  been 
in  Cliftonlea." 

"Where?" 


T.' 


MAISON  DE  DEUIL. 


279 


«*  At  the  Cliflfe  Arms." 

"  Why  were  you  not  at  home  ?  " 

"  I  decline  answering  that  question,  sir." 

"  Were  you  in  the  town  last  night  ?  " 

♦'  No,  sir;  I  was  on  the  grounds." 

Everybody  looked  at  each  other  blankly.  Tom  stood  up 
haughty  and  defiant,  evidently  perfectly  reckless  what  he 
admitted. 

"  It  is  very  strange,"  said  Mr.  Channing,  slowly,  "that 
you  should  have  been  there  instead  of  at  the  house  here — 
your  proper  place.  What  reasons  had  you  for  such  a 
course  ? " 

"  I  decline  answering  that  question,  too  I  I  decline," 
said  Tom,  with  compressed  lips  and  flashing  eyes,  "  answer- 
ing any  more  questions  whatever.  My  motives  are  my  own  ; 
and  you  nor  any  one  else  shall  ever  hear  them  !  " 

There  was  very  little  need  for  Tom  to  make  his  motives 
known.  Not  one  present — the  colonel,  perhaps,  alone  ex- 
cepted— but  knew  how  madly  he  had  been  in  love  with  his 
cousin,  and  that  his  furious  jealousy  of  the  accepted  lover 
had  driven  him  from  home.  All  knew  his  violent  temper, 
too  ;  his  fierce  outbursts  of  passion  ;  and  believing  him  guilty, 
not  one  of  them  needed  to  be  told  the  cause  of  his  prowling 
about  in  the  grounds  in  secret  last  night.  Dead  silence  fol- 
lowed, broken  by  a  rap  at  the  door.  Hurst  opened  it,  and 
the  gamekeeper  entered,  carrying  in  his  hand  a  great  bludg- 
eon, all  stained  with  blood  and  thickly-matted  tufts  of 
hair. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  the  man,  coming  forward  and  bowing, 
"  this  here  is  what  did  the  deed  1  I  found  it  lying  among 
the  marsh  grass,  where  it  had  been  chucked.  You  can  see 
the  blood  and  the  hairs  sticking  in  it.  I  know  the  stick  very 
well.  I  have  seen  it  lying  down  there  near  the  Nun's  Grave 
fifty  times." 

The  gentlemen  examined  the  stick — a  murderous-looking 
bludgeon,  with  a  thick  head,  full  of  great  knobs  and  knots 
—capable,  in  a  strong  hand,  of  felling  an  ox. 

"  And,  gentlemen,"  continued  the  gamekeeper,  "  I  have 
something  else  to  say.  Last  evening,  about  half-past  eight, 
as  I  was  standing  down  near  the  park  gates,  I  saw  Mr.  Lei- 
cester  come   through,   walking   very   fast.     I   thought,   of 


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23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTEP  N.Y.  14580 

(716)6.2-4503 


28o      THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTILE  CI.IFFE. 

course,  he  was  going  up  to  the  castle,  and  had  come  through 
Lower  Cliffe  by  way  of  a  short  cut." 

"  Was  he  alone  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Channing. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Did  you  see  any  one  following  him  ? " 

"  I  didn't  wait  to  see,  sir.  Me  and  some  more  went  up  to 
see  the  fireworks,  and  that  was  the  last  I  saw  of  him." 

"  I  think  the  facts  are  quite  strong  enough  to  warrant  his 
committal,"  said  Mr^  Channing  to  the  colonel. 

"  I  think  so !  "  was  the  cold  reply. 

And  the  warrant  of  committal  was  made  out  immediately. 
Then  there  was  a  general  uprising  ;  a  carriage  was  ordered, 
and  Mr.  Channing  approached  Tom. 

"  I  am  sorry — I  am  very  sorry — but " 

"  Don't  distress  yourself,  Mr.  Channing,"  said  Tom, 
cynically.     "  I  am  ready  to  go  with  you  at  any  moment." 

The  bishop  came  over,  and  began,  in  his  urbane  way, 
some  pious  admonition ;  to  which  Tom  listened  as  unmoved 
as  if  he  were  talking  Greek.  The  carriage  came  round  to  the 
door,  and  he  and  Mr.  Channing  turned  to  go.  One  glance 
he  cast  back  toward  the- colonel ;  but  he  was  standing  w?*^h 
his  face  averted ;  and  Tom  passed  the  great  portico  of 
Castle  Cliffe,  the  home  of  his  boyhood,  for  the  last  time,  and 
in  five  minutes  was  on  his  way  to  Cliftonlea  jail,  to  be  tried 
for  his  life  for  wilful  murder. 

And  still  the  news  fled  ;  and  while  the  examination  was 
going  on  below,  it  had  been  whispered,  up-stairs,  and  down- 
stairs and  had  reached  the  ears  of  her  who  should  have  been 
the  last  to  hear  it.  As  all  slowly  dispersed  from  the  morn- 
ing-room, the  colonel  turned  into  the  studio  to  take  one  last 
look  at  what  lay  there,  and  found  that  another  had  preceded 
him.  Besides  the  door  of  communication  with  the  morning- 
room,  the  studio  had  another  opening  in  the  hall.  It  stood 
wide  now ;  and  standing  over  the  rigid  form,  gazing  at  it  as 
if  the  sight  were  slowly  turning  her  to  marble,  was  Vivia ! 

"  Vivia  I  My  God  1  "  cried  the  colonel,  in  horror.  "  What 
do  you  do  here  ?  "  „    -     r^i ,    '- 

She  turned  and  lifted  her  eyes  ;  and  the  next  moment,  with- 
out word  or  cry,  she  had  fallen  back  senseless  in  his 
arms. 

It  was  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  had  ever  seen  Vivia 


MAISON  DK  DEUII.. 


281 


a  suppressed 
«  Tell  me,  or 


faint.  She  was  of  too  sanguine  a  temperament  for  that ;  and 
he  nearly  tore  the  bell  down  in  his  frantic  summons  for  help, 
as  he  quitted  the  room  of  death  and  carried  her  up  to  her 
chamber.  Jeannette  came  in  dismay,  with  smelling-salts 
and  cologne  ;  and  leaving  her  in  her  charge,  the  colonel  went 
out.  In  the  hall  he  was  encountered  by  Margaret,  looking, 
like  everybody  else,  pale  and  wild. 

"  Is  it  true  ?  What  is  this  story  they  are  telling  ?  Has 
Leicester  CUffe  been  murdered  ?  " 

"  Margaret,  go  to  your  room  !  It  is  no  story  for  you  to 
hear !  " 

"  I  must  hear  !  "   exclaimed    Margaret,  in 
voice,  her  dark  eyes  filling  with  a  dusky  fire. 
I  shall  die  I" 

He  looked  at  her  in  wonder. 

"  Margaret,  you  are  ill.  You  look  like  a  ghost !  Do  go 
to  your  own  room  and  lie  down." 

"  Will  you  tell  me,  or  shall  I  go  and  see  for  myself  ? " 

"If  you  will  hear  such  horrors,  it  is  quite  true  1  He  has 
been  murdered !  " 

"  And  they  have  arrested  some  one  for  it,"  she  hoarsely 
whispered. 

"  They  have  arrested  Tom  Shirley." 

She  clasped  both  hands  over  her  heart,  and  a  spasm 
crossed  her  face. 

"  And  do  you  believe  him  guilty  ?  " 

"  I  do,"  he  coldly  and  sternly  said. 

She  sunk  down  with  a  sort  of  cry. 

But  he  had  other  things  to  think  of  besides  her  ;  and  he 
left  her  leaning  against  the  wall,  her  hands  still  clasped  over 
her  heart,  and  her  face  working  in  a  sort  of  inward  anguish. 
So  she  stood  for  nearly  an  hour,  without  moving,  and  then 
Jeannette  came  out  of  the  rose-room,  crying  and  wiping  her 
eyes,  followed  by  Vivia,  who  seemed  to  have  no  tears  to 
shed. 

"  You  ought  to  lie  down  and  be  nursed  yourself,  made- 
moiselle, instead  of  going  to  nurse  other  people,"  cried  the 
bonne.     "  You  are  hardly  fit  to  stand  now !  " 

"  It  will  not  be  for  long,  Jeannette,"  said  Vivia,  wearily. 

All  my  labors  here  will  soon  be  at  an  end." 

Your  grandmamma  won't  see  you,  either ;  so  your  going 


<( 


, 


^! 


(( 


282      THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CI.IFFE. 


is  of  no  use.  Hortense  told  me  that  she  gave  orders  you 
were  not  to  be  admitted  to  her  room." 

It  was  quite  true.  In  the  revulsion  of  feeling  that  followed 
the  awakening  from  her  hysteria,  Lady  Agnes  had  been 
seized  with  a  violent  aversion  to  seeing  her  once  almost 
idolized  granddaughter.  She  could  no  longer  think  of  her 
without  also  thinking  of  her  connection  with  some  wretched 
old  woman  in  Lower  Cliffe  and  a  returned  transport.  She 
felt — unjustly  enough — as  if  Vivia  had  been  imposing  on  her 
all  her  life,  and  that  she  never  wanted  to  see  her  again.  And 
so,  when  Hortense  opened  the  door  in  answer  to  the  well- 
known  gentle  tap,  she  was  quietly  and  firmly  refused  admit- 
tance, and  the  door  civilly  shut  in  her  face.  It  was  only  one 
more  blow  added  to  the  rest — only  fulfilling  the  rude  but  ex- 
pressive adage,  •*  When  a  dog  is  drowning,  every  one  offers 
him  water  " — but  Vivia  tottered  as  she  received  it,  and  stood 
for  a  moment  clinging  to  the  gilded  stair-balustrade  for  sup- 
port, with  everything  swimming  around  her.  Then  this,  too, 
passed,  as  all  blows  do,  and  she  walked  back,  almost  totter- 
ing as  she  went,  to  her  own  room. 

Even  there,  still  another  blow  awaited  her.  Margaret  stood 
in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  her  face  livid,  her  eyes  blazing. 

"  Oh,  Margaret  1  "  was  Vivia's  cry,  as  she  dropped  her 
head  on  her  shoulder. 

But  Margaret  thrust  her  off  with  repulsion. 

"  Don't  touch  me — don't !  "  she  said,  in  the  same  sup- 
pressed voice.     "  You  murderess  I  " 

Vivia  had  been  standing  looking  at  4ier  as  a  deer  dioes 
with  a  knife  at  its  throat,  but  at  the  terrible  word  she  dropped 
into  a  seat,  as  if  the  last  blow  she  could  ever  receive  had 
fallen. 

"  You,"  said  Margaret,  with  her  pitiless  black  eyes  seem- 
ing to  scorch  into  her  face,  and  her  voice  frightful  in  its 
depth  of  suppressed  passion — "you,  who  have  walked  all 
your  life  over  our  heads  with  a  ring  and  a  clatter — you,  who 
are  nothing,  after  all,  but  a  pitiful  upstart — you,  who  have 
been  the  curse  of  my  life  and  of  all  who  have  ever  known 
you.  I  tell  you,  you  are  a  double  murderess  I  for  not  only 
is  his  blood  on  your  head  who  lies  down  there  a  ghastly 
corpse,  but  another  who  will  die  on  the  scaffold  for  your 
crime  1  " 


MAISON  DE  DEUII.. 


2C3 


■ 


I 


The  corpse  down-stairs  could  scarcely  have  looked  more 
ghastly  than  did  Vivia  herself  at  that  moment.  Her  white 
lips  parted  to  speak,  but  no  sound  came  forth.  Pitilessly 
Margaret  went  on  : 

♦'  You,  who  stood  so  high  and  queenly  in  your  pride,  could 
stoop  to  lure  and  wile,  like  any  other  coquette — could  win 
hearts  by  your  false  smiles,  and  then  cast  them  in  scorn 
from  your  feet.  I  tell  you  I  despise  you !  I  hate  you  1 
You've  brought  disgrace  and  ruin  on  him,  on  all  connected 
with  you,  and  you  have  broken  my  heart  I  " 

"  Oh,  Margaret !  have  you  no  mercy  ?  " 

"  None  for  such  as  you  !  I  loved  him — I  loved  him  with 
my  whole  heart,  ten  thousand  times  better  than  you  ever 
could  do,  and  you  had  no  mercy  on  me.  You  won  his  heart, 
and  then  cast  it  from  you  as  a  child  does  a  broken  toy  !  " 

"  Margaret,  listen  to  me.  I  will  be  heard  1  I  know  you 
loved  Leicester,  but  it  was  not  my  fault  that " 

Margaret  broke  into  a  hysterical  laugh. 

"  Loved  Leicester  I  Is  she  a  fool  as  well  as  a  miserable 
jilt  ?     Oh,  you  might  have  married  him  with  all  my  heart ! " 

"  And  who,  then Margaret,  is  it  possible  you    are 

speaking  of  Tom  Shir -" 

"  No  1  "  cried  Margaret,  holding  out  her  hands  with  a 
sort  of  scream,  "  not  his  name  from  your  lips  1  Oh,  I  loved 
him,  you  know  it  well ;  and  now  he  is"  to  be  tried  for  his 
life,  and  all  through  you  I  Murderess  you  are — a  double 
murderess ;  for  if  he  dies  it  will  be  through  you,  as  much 
as  if  you  placed  the  rope  around  his  neck  1 " 

Vivia  had  dropped  down,  with  her  face  hidden  in  her 
hands. 

"  Margaret,  spare  me  !  Oh,  what  have  I  done — what 
have  I  done,  that  all  should  turn  from  me  like  this  ?  Mar- 
garet, I  am  going  away.  I  am  going  back  to  my  convent 
ill  France,  where  I  shall  never  trouble  you  nor  anybody  else 
again.  All  the  world  has  turned  against  me  ;  but  there,  at 
least,  I  can  go  and  die  !  " 

"  Go,  then ;  the  sooner  the  better.  You  are  no  longer 
needed   here." 

"  Oh,  I  know  it  1  All  have  turned  against  me — all  whom 
I  love  ;  and  I  would  die  for  them.  Even  you,  Margaret, 
might  forgive  me  now." 


l^ 


i 


384      ^HE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CUFFE. 


"  Ask  forgiveness  from  God  1     I  never  will." 

Vivia's  head  dropped  down  on  the  arm  of  the  chair. 

Margaret  left  her,  sought  her  own  room,  and  appeared  no 
more  that  day. 

In  the  gray  dawn  of  the  next  morning,  when  the  first  train 
went  shrieking  from  the  Cliftonlea  depot,  on  its  way  to 
London,  a  slight,  girlish  figure,  shrouded  in  a  long  mantle, 
and  closely  veiled,  glided  in,  took  a  seat  in  a  remote  cor- 
ner, and  was  borne  swiftly  away  from  the  home  to  which 
she  had  returned  so  short  a  time  before  like  a  triumphant 
queen,  which  she  now  left  like  a  stealthy  culprit. 

That  same  morning.  Colonel  Shirley  found  a  brief  note 
lying  on  his  dressing-table,  that  moved  him  more  than  all 
the  strange  and  tragical  events  of  the  past  two  days  : 

"  Dear  Papa  : — Let  me  call  you  so  this  once,  for  the 
last  time.  When  you  read  this,  I  shall  be  far  away ;  but  I 
could  not  go  without  saying  good-by.  I  am  going  back  to 
my  dear  France,  to  my  dear  convent,  where  I  was  so  happy ; 
and  I  shair strive  to  atone  by  a  life  of  penance  for  the  misery 
I  have  caused  you  all  to  suffer.  Dear,  dear  papa,  I  shall  love 
you  and  pray  for  you  always ;  and  I  know,  much  as  you 
have  been  wronged,  you  will  not  quite  forget  Vivia. 

She,  too,  was  lost!  Down  below,  Leicester  Cliflfe  lay 
dead.  Tom  Shirley  was  in  a  felon's  cell.  In  his  room, 
Sii  Roland  lay  ill  unto  death.  Lady  Agnes  and  Margaret, 
shut  up  in  their  own  apartments,  never  came  out ;  and  he 
was  left  utterly  alone.  Truly,  Castle  Cliffe  was  a  house  of 
mourning. 


m^ 


m 


■  -.'^-i 


THE  SENTENCE. 


285 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 


THE    SENTENCE. 


The  August  roses  were  in  full  bloom,  in  the  scorching 
heat  of  early  afternoon,  within  a  pretty  garden,  in  a  pretty 
village,  some  miles  from  London,  as  a  gig,  holding  two 
gentlemen,  drove  through  the  wooden  gates,  and  up  a 
shaded  avenue,  toward  a  large  brick  building.  The  gentle- 
men— one  tall  and  handsome,  with  a  grand  kingly  sort  of 
face,  and  dark,  grave  eyes ;  the  other,  middle-sized,  but 
looking  puny  compared  with  his  companion,  a  very  shining 
personage,  with  yellow  tinseled  hair,  wearing  a  bright  buff 
waistcoat,  and  a  great  profusion  of  jewelry — alighted  be- 
fore the  principal  entrance.  A  stout  little  gentleman, 
standing  on  the  steps  awaiting  them,  ran  down  at  their  ap-  - 
proach,  and  shook  hands  with  the  latter,  in  the  manner  of 
an  old  friend. 

"  Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Sweet !  It  is  a  sight  for  sair  een, 
as  the  Scotch  say,  to  see  you  again." 

"Thank  you,  doctor,"  said  the  tinseled  individual. 
"  This  is  the  gentleman  I  told  you  of.  Doctor  South, 
Colonel  Shirley  1 " 

The  doctor  bowed  low,  and  the  colonel  raised  his  hat. 

"  You  are  welcome,  colonel  I  I  presume  you  have  come 
to  see  my  unfortunate  patient,  Mrs.  Wildman  ?  " 

"  I  have.     We  can  see  her,  I  hope." 

"  Oh,  certainly,  poor  thing !  A  very  quiet  case,  hers,  but 
quite  incurable.  Most  cases  of  melancholy  madness  are. 
This  way,  if  you  please." 

Leading  them  through  a  long  hall,  the  doctor  ascended  a 
staircase,  entered  a  corridor  with  a  long  array  of  doors  on 
either  hand,  followed  by  his  two  companions. 

"  My  female  patients  are  all  on  this  side,"  he  said,  un- 


286        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CUFFE. 


locking  one  of  the  doors,  and  again  leading  the  way  into 
another,  with  neat  little  sleeping-rooms  on  each  side,  and, 
finally,  into  a  large,  long  apartment,  with  the  summer  sun- 
shine coming  pleasantly  through  two  high  windows,  grated 
without,  filled  with  women  of  all  ages.  Some  sat  peaceably 
knitting  and  sewing  ;  some  were  walking  up  and  down  ; 
some  sat  talking  to  themselves  ;  but  the  colonel  was  as- 
tonished to  see  how  comparatively  quiet  they  all  were.  His 
eye  wandered  round  in  search  of  her  he  had  come  to  see, 
and  it  rested  and  lingered  at  last  on  one  sitting  close  to  a 
window,  who  neither  moved  nor  looked  up  at  their  entrance,, 
but  remained  gazing  vacantly  out,  and  slowly  and  con- 
t'*^ually  wringing  her  hands.     A  pallid  and  faded   creature, 

.ii  dim,  fair  hair,  cut  short  like  a  child's,  and  streaking 
..er  furrowed  forehead  ;  a  thin,  wan  face,  pitiable  in  its 
quiet  hopelessness,  the  light  blue  eyes  vacant  and  dull,  and 
the  poor  fingers  she  twisted  continually,  nothing  but  skin 
and  bone.  Yet,  as  Colonel  Shirley  looked,  his  thoughts 
went  back  to  a  certain  stormy  night,  eighteen  years  before, 
where  a  pretty,  fair-haired  woman  had  kissed  and  cried 
over  his  little  child ;  and  he  recognized  this  faded  shadow 
instantly.  The  doctor  went  over,  and  patted  her  lightly  on 
the  shoulder. 

"  Mrs.  Wildman,  my  dear,  look  round !  Here  is  a  gentle- 
man come  to  see  you." 

The  woman  turned  her  pale,  pinched  face,  and  looked 
up,  in  a  hopeless  sort  of  way,  in  the  pitying  eyes  of  the 
Indian  officer. 

"  Have  you  brought  her  back  ?  "  she  asked,  mournfully. 
"  She  sent  her  away ;  my  little  Barbara  ;  my  only  child  ;  my 
only  child  1  " 

"  She  keeps  that  up  continually,"  said  the  doctor,  with  an 
intelligent  nod  to  the  colonel.  "  Nobody  ever  can  get  any- 
thing out  of  her  but  that." 

"  I  wish  you  would  bring  her  back  to  me  !  "  said  the  im- 
becile, still  looking  in  the  same  hopeless  way  at  the  visitor. 
"  She  sent  her  away — my  little  Barbara — and  I  love  her  so 
much  I     Do  go  and  bring  her  back  !  " 

The  colonel  sat  down  beside  her  and  took  one  of  the 
wasted  hands  in  his,  with  a  look  that  was  infinitely  kind 
and  gentle.  . 


THE  SENTENCE. 


287 


;!v 


"  Who  was  it  sent  her  away — your  little  Barbara  ? " 

"  She  did  1  The  one  she  kept  was  the  gentleman's  child, 
and  it  was  always  crying  and  troublesome,  and  not  kind 
and  good  like  my  little  Barbara.  I  wish  you  would  go  and 
bring  her  back.  It  is  so  lonesome  here  without  her  ;  and 
she  was  my  only  child,  my  only  child  1 '' 

"  I  told  you  so,"  said  the  doctor,  with  another  nod. 
"You  won't  get  her  beyond  that,  if  you  keep  at  her  till 
doomsday  !  " 

"  Where  did  she  send  her  to  ?  "  asked  the  colonel  ;  but 
the  woman  only  looked  at  him  vacantly. 

"  She  sent  her  away,"  she  repeated,  ''  and  kept  the  gentle- 
man's child — the  tall  gentleman  that  was  so  handsome,  and 
gave  me  the  money.  But  she  sent  away  my  little  Barbara  ; 
my  only  child,  my  only  child  1  Oh,  won't  somebody  go 
and  bring  her  back  ?  " 

The  colonel  bent  over  her,  took  her  other  hand,  and 
looked  steadfastly  into  the  dull  eyes. 

"  Mrs.  Wildman,  do  you  not  know  me  ?  I  am  the  gentle- 
man who  left  the  child." 

She  looked  at  him  silently ;  but  her  gaze  was  listless  and 
without  meaning. 

"  Your  little  Barbara  has  grown  up — is  a  young  lady, 
beautiful  and  accomplished — do  you  understand  ?  " 

No ;  she  did  not.  She  only  turned  away  her  eyes,  with 
a  little  weary  sigh,  very  sad  to  hear,  and  murmured  over 
again  : 

"  Oh,  I  wish  somebody  would  bring  her  back  I  She  was 
my  only  child,  my  only  child  !  " 

"  It's  all  no  use  I  "  interposed  the  doctor.  "  No  earthly 
power  will  ever  get  her  beyond  that.  Hers  is  a  case  quite 
harmless  and  quite  hopeless." 

Colonel  Shirley  arose,  and  pressed  something  he  took 
out  of  his  waistcoat  pocket  into  the  doctor's  hand. 

"  Be  good  to  her,  doctor.     Poor  creature  1 " 

"  Thank  you,  colonel,"  said  the  doctor,  glancing  with  in- 
finite complacency  at  the  bank-note  for  fifty  pounds.  "  She 
shall  have  the  best  of  care.  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  go 
over  the  whole  establishment?  "  -      - 

"  Not  to-day,  I  think.  We  must  catch  the  two  o'clock 
train  back  to  London." 


288      THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CUEFE. 

The  doctor  led  the  way  down-stairs,  and  bowed  them  ob- 
sequiously out. 

Only  one  sentence  was  spoken  as  they  drove  rapidly 
down  to  the  depot. 

"  Poor  thing  I  she  is  greatly  changed,  but  looks  like  Miss 
— Vivia,"  Mr.  Sweet  had  said,  anH  had  received  a  look  in 
answer  that  effectually  silenced  him  for  the  rest  of  the 
way. 

Next  day,  when  the  early  afternoon  train  from  London 
came  steaming  into  Cliftonlea,  Colonel  Shirley  and  Mr. 
Sweet  had  got  out  and  walked  up  the  town.  The  latter 
gentleman  speedily  turned  off  in  the  direction  of  his  own 
house,  and  the  colonel  walked,  with  a  grave  face,  up  High 
street,  turning  neither  to  the  right  nor  the  left,  until  he 
stood  knocking  at  the  principal  entrance  of  the  town-jail. 
The  turnkey  who  opened  it,  opened  his  eyes,  too ;  for,  dur- 
ing the  two  months  his  young  relative  had  been  a  lodger 
there,  the  colonel  had  not  come  once  to  visit  him. 

All  Cliftonlea  was  in  a  state  of  ferment ;  for  the  assizes 
were  on,  and  Tom  Shirley's  trial  would  begin  to-morrow ; 
and  setting  his  visit  down  to  this  cause,  the  turnkey  ad- 
mitted him. 

There  was  no  difficulty  in  obtaining  the  desired  interview, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  a  ponderous  key  was  turning  in  a  pon- 
derous lock,  a  strong  door  swung  open,  the  colonel  was  in 
the  prison-cell,  listening  to  the  re-locking  of  the  door  with- 
out, and  retreating  steps  of  the  jailer. 

The  cell  was  as  dismal  as  could  be  desired,  and  a$  empty 
of  furniture,  holding  but  a  bed,  a  chair,  and  a  table ;  but 
the  August  sunshine  came  just  as  brightly  through  the  little 
grated  square  of  light  as  it  did  through  the  plate-glass  of 
Castle  Cliffe,  and  lay  broad,  and  bright,  and  warm  on  the 
stone  floor. 

The  prisoner  sat  beside  the  table,  reading  a  little  book 
bound  in  gold  and  purple  velvet,  that  looked  odd  enough  in 
the  dreary  cell.  It  was  a  gift,  prized  hitherto  for  the  sake 
of  the  giver — a  little  French  Testament,  with  "  To  cousin 
Tom,  with  Vivia's  love,"  written  in  a  delicate  Italian  hand 
on  the  fly-leaf ;  but  of  late  days  Tom  had  learned  to  prize 
it  for  a  sake  far  higher. 

He  rose  at  sight  of  his  visitor,  looking  very  thin,  very 


the;  sentence. 


289 


pale,  very  quiet,  and  both  stood  gazing  at  each  other  for  a 
few  seconds  in  silence. 

"  Is  it  really  Colonel  Shirley  ?  "  said  Tom,  at  last,  with 
just  a  shade  of  sarcasm  in  his  tone.  **  This  is  indeed  an 
unexpected  honor." 

*'  You  do  not  need  to  ask,  Tom,  why  I  have  never  been 
here  before,"  said  the  colonel,  whose  face,  always  pale 
lately,  had  grown  even  a  shade  paler. 

"  Scarcely.  Do  me  the  honor  to  be  seated,  and  let  me 
know  to  what  I  am  indebted  for  this  visit." 

He  presented  his  chair  with  formal  politeness  as  he  spoke  ; 
but  his  visitor  only  availed  himself  of  it  to  lean  one  hand 
lightly  on  its  back  and  the  other  on  the  young  man's  shoul- 
der. 

"  Tom,"  he  said,  looking  earnestly  and  searchingly  at 
him,  "  I  have  come  here  to  ask  you  one  question,  and  I 
want  you  to  answer  it  truthfully  before  God  1  Are  you  in- 
nocent 1 " 

"  It  is  late  to  ask  that  question,"  said  Tom,  disdainfully. 

"  Answer  it  Tom  !  "  . 

"  Excuse  me,  sir.     The  very  question  is  an  insult." 
,   "  Tom,  for  Heaven's  sake,  do  not  stand  balancing  hairs 
with  me  1     You  always  were  the  soul  of  honor  and  straight- 
forwardness, and,  late  as  it  is,  if  you  will  only  tell  me,  in 
the  face  of  Heaven,  you  are  innocent,  I  will  believe  you !  " 

Tom's  honest  black  eyes,  that  never  quailed  before  mortal 
man,  rose  boldly  and  truthfully  to  the  speaker's  face. 

"  Before  Heaven,"  he  said,  solemnly  raising  his  arm  and 
dropping  it  on  the  purple  book,  "  as  I  shall  have  to  answer 
to  God,  I  am  innocent !  " 

"  Enough  1  "  said  the  colonel,  taking  his  hand  in  a  firm 
grasp.  "  I  believe  you,  with  all  my  heart !  My  dear  boy, 
forgive  me  for  ever  thinking  you  guilty  for  a  moment." 

"  Don't  ask  it !  How  could  you  help  thinking  me  guilty, 
in  the  face  of  all  this  circumstantial  evidence  ?  But  sit  down, 
and  let  me  look  at  you.  It  is  good  to  see  a  friend's  face 
again.     You  have  been  getting  thin  and  pale,  colonel." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  must  return  the  compliment.  I  see  only 
the  shadow  of  the  ruddy,  boisterous  Tom  Shirley  of  old." 

Tom  smiled,  and  pushed  back  in  a  careless  way  his  lux- 
uriant black  curls. 


290        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CUFFE. 

"  Nothing  very  odd  in  that,  sir.  Solitude  and  prison- 
fare  are  not  the  best  things  I  ever  heard  of  for  putting  a 
man  in  good  condition.     How  goes  the  world  outside  ? " 

"  Much  as  usual.     Have  you  no  visitors  then  ?  " 

**  None  to  speak  of.  A  few  mere  acquaintances  came 
out  of  curiosity,  but  I  declined  to  see  them  ;  and  as  my 
fric.Hli  " — said  Tom,  with  another  smile  that  had  very  much 
of  sadness  in  it — •"  thought  me  guilty,  and  held  aloof,  I  have 
been  left  pretty  much  to  my  own  devices." 

"  Your  trial  comes  on  to-morrow  ?  " 

<'  It  does." 

**  You  have  engaged  counsel,  of  course  ? 


M 


(( 


Yes  ;  one  of  the  best   advocates  in   England.     But  his 
anticipations,  I  am  afraid,  are  not  over  brilliant." 

*'  The  evidence  is  very  strong,  certainly,  although  merely 
circumstantial,  but — " 

'*  But  better  men  than  I  have  been  condemned  on  circum- 
stantial evidence.     I  know  it,"  said  Torn,  very  quietly. 

"  What  do  you  anticipate  yourself  ?  " 

"  Unless  Providence  should  interpose  and  send  the  real 
murderer  forward  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it,  I  anticipate 
a  very  speedy  termination  of  my  mortal  cares." 

"  And  you  can  speak  of  it  like  this  1  You  are  indeed 
changed,  Tom." 

"  Colonel,"  said  Tom,  gravely,  "  when  a  man  sits  within 
four  stone  walls,  like  this,  for  two  months,  with  a  prospect 
of  death  before  him,  he  must  be  something  more  than  human 
not  to  change.  I  have  had  at  least  one  constant  visitor,  his 
lordship  the  bishop ;  and  though  I  am  perfectly  certain  he 
believes  me  guilty,  he  has  done  me  good  ;  and  this  small 
book  has  helped  the  work.  Had  I  anything  to  bind  me 
very  strongly  to  life,  it  would  be  different ;  but  there  is 
nothing  much  in  the  outer  world  I  care  for ;  and  so,  let  the 
result  be  what  it  may,  I  think  I  shall  meet  it  quietly.  If 
one  had  a  choice  in  so  delicate  a  matter  " — with  another 
smile — "  I  might,  perhaps,  prefer  a  different  mode  of  leav- 
ing this  world  ;  but  w^hat  can't  be  cured — you  know  the 
proverb.     Don't  let  us  talk  of  it.     How  is  Lady  Agnes  ?  " 

"  Well  in  body,  but  ill  in  mind.  She  is  shut  up  in  her 
room,  and  I  never  see  her."  ,      ,     .   > 

,_  "  And  Margaret  ?  "  '  ,  „  :  . 


I 


THE  SENTENCE. 


291 


prison- 
jtting  a 
;?" 

s  came 

as  my 

y  much 

,  I  have 


But  his 

merely 

circum- 

ly. 

he  real 
ticipate 

indeed 

within 

rospect 

human 

or,  his 

ain  he 

small 

ind  me 

lere  is 

let  the 

tly.     If 

another 

)f  leav- 

ow  the 

es?" 

in  her 


"  Margaret  followed  her  example.  Sir  Roland  is  laid  up 
again  with  the  gout  at  Cliftonwood." 

"  Castle^  Cliffe  must  be  a  dreary  place.  I  wonder  you 
can  stay  there." 

"  I  shall  be  there  a  short  time  now.  My  old  rcj^iment  is 
doing  some  hard  fighting  before  Sebastopol ;  and  as  soon 
as  your  trial  is  over,  I  shall  rejoin  them." 

Tom's  eyes  lighted,  his  face  flushed  hotly,  and  then  turned 
to  its  former  pale  and  sickly  color. 

"  Oh  that  I — "  he  began,  and  then  stopped  short ;  but 
he  was  understood. 

"  I  wi.h  to  Heaven  it  were  possible,  Tom  ;  but  whatever 
happens,  we  must  content  ourselves  with  the  cry  of  the 
strong  old  crusaders,  *  God  wills  it  1  '  You  must  learn,  as 
we  all  have  to,  the  great  lesson  of  life — endurance." 

Poor  Tom  had  begun  the  lesson,  but  his  face  showed  that 
he  had  found  the  rudiments  very  bitter. 

The  colonel  paused  for  a  moment ;  and  then,  looking  at 
the  floor,  went  on,  in  a  more  subdued  tone : 

"  Somebody  else  is  learning  it,  too,  in  the  solitude  of  a 
French  convent — Vivia." 

Tom  gave  a  little  start  at  the  unexpected  sound  of  that 
name,  and  the  flush  came  back  to  his  face. 

"  You  have  heard  from  her,  then  ?  " 

"  I  have  done  better — I  have  seen  her.  A  shadow,  a 
spirit,  came  behind  the  convent  grate  and  shook  hands  with 
me  through  it.  She  was  so  wan  and  wasted  with  fasting 
and  vigils,  I  suppose,  that  I  scarcely  knew  her  ;  and  we 
talked  for  fifteen  minutes  with  the  grate  between  us.  Satis- 
factory— was  it  not  ? " 

"  Very.     Has  she  taken  the  veil  ?  " 

"  Not  yet.  No  thanks  to  her,  though.  It  was  her  wish  ; 
but  the  superior,  knowing  it  was  merely  the  natural  revul- 
sion of  feeling,  and  that  she  had  no  real  vocation,  would 
not  permit  it.  Then  Vivia  wished  to  go  out  as  a  governess 
— think  of  that — but  Mother  Ursula  would  not  hear  of  that 
either.  She  is  to  make  the  convent  her  home  for  a  year, 
and  if,  at  the  end  of  that  time,  she  still  desires  it,  she  will 
be  permitted  to  enter  upon  her  novitiate.  I  will  go  by  Paris 
and  see  her  again  before  I  depart  for  the  Crimea." 

"Does  she  know — " 


i    i 


i  ■  ! 


292      THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CUFFE. 

Tom  paused. 

"  She  knows  all.     She  gave  me  this  for  you." 
The  colonel  produced  his  pocket-book,  and  took  from 
between  the  leaves  a  little  twisted  note. 
Tom  opened  it  and  read  : 

"  My  Brother. — I  know  you  are  innocent.    I  love  you,  and  pray 
for  you  every  night  and  day.    God  keep  you  always  ! 

ViVIA." 

That  was  all. 

Tom  dropped  his  face  on  the  table  without  a  word. 

Colonel  Shirley  looked  at  him  an  instant,  then  arose. 

"  I  shall  leave  you  now.  Remember,  I  have  firm  faith 
in  your  innocence  from  henceforth.  Keep  up  a  good  heart, 
and,  until  to-morrow,  farewell.'* 

He  pressed  his  hand. 

But  Tom  neither  spoke  nor  looked  up ;  and  the  Colonel 
went  out  and  left  him,  with  his  head  lying  on  the  wooden 
table,  and  the  tiny  note  still  crushed  in  his  hand. 


M 


'fi- 


THE  SENTENCE. 


293 


N      ' 


CHAPTER  XXX. 


THE    SENTENCE. 


At  day-dawn  the  next  morning  Cliftonlea  was  all  bustle 
and  stir  ;  and  at  ten  o'clock  the  court-house  was  a  perfect 
jam.  There  were  troops  of  people  down  from  London,  who 
all  knew  the  Shirleys  ;  swarms  of  newspaper-reporters,  note- 
book and  pencil  in  hand,  not  .to  speak  of  half  the  county 
besides.  The  gallery  was  filled  with  ladies,  and  among 
them  glided  in  one  in  a  long,  shrouding  mantle,  and  wearing 
a  thick  veil  ;  but  people  knew  the  white  face  of  Margaret 
Shirley,  despite  any  disguise.  The  colonel  was  there,  and 
so  was  Sir  Roland,  malgrk  his  gout  ;  and  so  was  Joe,  the 
gamekeeper's  son,  looking  scared  beyond  everything,  and 
full  of  the  vague  notion  that  he  stood  in  as  much  danger  of 
hanging,  himself,  as  the  prisoner.  The  prisoner  did  not 
look  at  all  scared ;  he  sat  in  the  dock  as  he  had  sat  in  his  cell 
the  day  before,  pale,  quiet,  and  perfectly  calm,  scanning  the 
crowd  with  his  dauntless  black  eyes,  and  meeting  the  gaze 
of  all  known  and  unknown  with  the  stoicism  of  an  Indian 
at  the  stake.  Some  of  the  reporters  began  sketching  his 
face  in  their  note-books.  Tom  saw  it,  and  smiled  ;  and  the 
crowd  set  him  down  as  a  cool  hand,  and  a  guilty  one. 
Very  few  present  had  any  doubt  of  his  guilt  ;  the  facts  that 
had  come  out  of  the  inquest  were  strong  against  him  ;  and 
there  was  nobody  else,  apparently,  in  the  world  who  had 
the  least  interest  in  the  death  of  the  murdered  man.  All 
knew  by  that  time  how  everything  stood — how  infatuated 
he  had  been  with  the  young  lady,  and  how  madly  jealous 
he  was  of  the  accepted  lover.  And  everybody  knew,  too, 
what  jealousy  will  make,  and  has  made,  the  best  of  men  do, 
from  King  David  down  ;  and  Tom's  hasty  and  violent  tem- 
per was  notorious.  Worst  of  all,  he  refused  to  give  any 
account  of  himself  whatever  ;  for  the  simple  fact  that  he  had 


294       THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CI.IFFE. 

no  account  to  give  that  would  not  involve  Vivia's  name  ;  and 
the  tortures  of  a  martyr  would  not  have  drawn  that  from  him 
in  a  crowded  court-room.  After  the  scene  in  the  starlight 
under  the  chestnuts,  he  had  fled  from  t'  s  place,  and  haunted 
Cliftonlea  like  a  lost  spirit.  On  the  bridal-night  an  insane 
impulse  drew  him  back  again  with  a  relentless  hand,  and  he 
had  wandered  up  and  down  among  the  trees  almost  beside 
himself,  but  wholly  unable  to  go  away. 

Tom  could  not  very  well  have  told  his  pitiable  tale  of 
love-sickness  and  insanity  to  a  grim  judge  and  jury ;  so  he 
just  held  his  tongue,  resolved  to  let  things  take  their  course, 
almost  indifferent  to  the  issue. 

Things  did  take  their  course.  They  always  do,  where  these 
two  inexorable  fates.  Time  and  Lav,  are  in  question.  The 
case  was  opened  in  a  brilliant  speech  by  the  counsel  for  the 
crown,  that  told  hard  on  the  prisoner,  and  then  the  wit- 
nesses were  called.  Joe  came  in  requisition,  and  so  did  Mr. 
Sweet's  Elizabeth,  and  it  would  be  hard  to  say  which  of  the 
two  was  the  most  terrified,  or  which  cried  the  most  before 
they  were  sent  down.  Mr.  Sweet  had  to  give  evidence,  so 
had  Colonel  Shirley,  so  had  Sir  Roland,  so  had  the  doctor, 
so  had  the  gamekeeper,  so  had  a  number  of  other  people, 
whom  one  would  think  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  And  at 
three  o'cjock  the  court  adjourned,  leaving  things  pretty  much 
as  they  were  before  ;  the  prisoner  was  remanded  back  to  his 
cell ;  the  mob  went  home  to  their  dinners,  and  to  assert, 
confidently,  that  before  long  there  would  be  an  execution  in 
Cliftonlea. 

The  trial  lasted  three  days  ;  and  with  each  passing  one 
the  interest  grew  deeper,  and  the  case  more  and  more  hope- 
less. Every  day  the  crowd  in  and  around  the  court-house 
grew  more  dense  ;  and  always  the  first  on  the  ground  was 
the  shrinking  figure  of  the  veiled  lady.  But  on  the  third, 
just  as  the  case  was  drawing  to  a  final  close,  something  hap- 
pened that  settled  the  last  doubt  in  the  minds  of  the  jury, 
if  such  a  thing  as  a  doubt  had  ever  rested  there.  A  woman 
had  made  her  way  through  the  crowd  by  dint  of  sharp  el- 
bows and  sharper  tongue,  and  had  taken  her  place  on  the 
witness-stand,  in  a  very  determined  and  excited  state  of 
mind.  The  young  woman  was  Jeannette,  who  had  followed 
her  young  lady  to  France,  and  had  evidently  just  come  back 


1  \. 


THE  SENTENCE. 


295 


one 


from  that  delightful  land  ;  and  on  informing  them  she  had 
taken  a  long  journey  to  give  important  evidence,  she  was 
sworn,  and  asked  what  she  had  to  say. 

Jeannette  had  a  good  deal  to  say,  chiefly  in  parentheses, 
with  a  strong  French  accent,  a  great  many  Mon  Dietis, 
and  no  punctuation  marks  to  speak  of.  It  appeared,  how- 
ever, when  the  evidence  was  shorn  of  all  French  embellish- 
ment, that  on  the  night  the  deceased  had  returned  from 
London  (a  couple  of  days  before  the  one  fixed  for  the  wed- 
ding,) Miss  Vivia  had  been  wandering  alone  in  the  park, 
where  she  was  suddenly  joined  by  the  prisoner.  She,  Jean- 
nette, had  followed  her  young  lady  out  to  warn  her  against 
night-dews,  when,  hearing  a  loud  and  angry  voice,  she  halted, 
discreetly,  at  a  distance,  with  the  true  instinct  of  her  class, 
to  listen.  There  she  had  overheard  the  prisoner  making 
very  loud  and  honest  protestations  of  love  to  Miss  Shirley  ; 
and  when  rejected,  and  assured  by  her  she  would  marry 
none  but  Mr.  Cliffe,  he  had  flown  out  in  such  a  way, 
that  she,  Jeannette,  was  scared  pretty  nearly  into  fits,  and 
she  was  perfectly  sure  she  had  heard  him  threaten  to  mur- 
der the  bridegroom  elect.  Mademoiselle  Jeannette  further 
informed  her  audience  that,  believing  the  prisoner  guilty, 
her  conscience  would  not  let  her  keep  the  matter  secret,  and 
.  it  had  sent  her  across  the  Channel,  in  spite  of  seasickness, 
unknown  to  her  young  lady,  to  unburden  her  mind.  It 
was  hard  evidence  against  the  prisoner  ;  and  though 
mademoiselle  underwent  a  galling  cross-examination,  her 
testimony  could  not  be  shaken,  though  it  left  her,  as  it  well 
,  might,  in  a  very  wild  and  hysterical  state  of  mind  at  its 
close.  Colonel  Sh'  ley,  standing  near  Tom,  stooped  down 
in  dismay,  and  whispered :  - 

"  Have  you  anything  to  say  to  all  this  ?  " 

"Nothing;  it  is  perfectly  true."  -^ 

"  Then  your  case  is  hopeless." 

"  It  has  been  hopeless  all  along !  "  said  Tom,  quietly,  as. 
Mademoiselle  Jeannette  descended,  quite  out  of  herself  with 
the  cross-examination  she  had  un'lergone. 

There  was  nothing  more  to  be  done.  The  evidence  was 
summed  up  in  one  mighty  mass  against  the  prisoner,  and 
the  jury  retired  to  find  a  verdict.  It  was  not  hard  to  find. 
In  five  minutes  they  were  back,  and  the   swaying  and  mur- 


I 


296       THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CI.IFFE. 

muring  of  the  crowd  subsided  into  an  awful  hush  of  expeo 
tation  as  the  foreman  arose. 

"  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  is  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  guilty 
or  not  guilty  of  the  felony  with  which  he  is  charged  ?  " 

And  solemnly  the  answer  came,  what  everybody  knew  it 
would  be : 

"  Guilty  1  my  lord." 

The  judge  arose  with  his  black  cap  on  his  head.  His  ad- 
dress to  the  prisoner  was  eloquent  and  touching,  and  the 
crowd  seemed  to  hush  their  very  heart-beating  to  listen. 
There  were  tears  in  his  eyes  before  he  had  done,  and  his 
voice  was  tremulous  as  he  wound  up  with  the  usual  ghastly 
formula. 

"  Your  sentence  is,  that  you  be  taken  hence  to  the  place 
from  whence  you  came,  from  thence  to  the  place  of  execu- 
tion, to  be  hung  by  the  neck  till  dead,  and  may  God  have 
mercy  on  your  soul  1 " 

He  sat  down,  but  the  same  dead  silence  reigned  still.  It 
was  broken  at  last  by  a  sound  common  enough  at  such 
times — a  veiled  lady  in  the  gallery  had  fallen  forward  in  a 
dead  swoon. 


%-. 


-^^. 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  WHEEL. 


297 


■•>:>*■. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 


THE    TURN    OF    THE    WHEEL. 


-»" ' 


It  was  a  wild  night  on  the  Sussex  coast.  A  north 
wind  roared  over  the  Channel — a  terrible  north  wind,  that 
shrieked  and  raved,  and  lashed  the  waVes  into  white  fury  ; 
that  tore  up  trees  by  the  roots,  blew  off  tall  steeples,  and 
filled  the  air  with  a  sharp  shower  of  tiles  and  chimney-pots, 
and  demolishing  frailer  buildings  altogether.  A  terrible 
night  down  there  on  the  coast — a  terrible  night  for  the  ships 
at  sea — a  night  that  had  everything  its  own  way,  and  defied 
the  hardiest  of  wayfarers  to  venture  out.  Great  sheets  of 
lurid  lighting  flashed  incessantly  ;  great  shocks  of  thun- 
der pealed  overhead,  shaking  sky,  and  earth,  and  sea,  to 
their  very  foundations.  A  terrible  night  in  Cliftonlea — the 
oldest  inhabitant  had  never  remembered  anything  like  it. 
Very  few  thought  of  going  to  bed — a  gentleman  had  come 
preaching  there  shortly  before,  with  the  important  infor- 
mation that  the  end  of  the  world  was  at  hand  ;  and  all 
Cliftonlea,  particularly  the  fairer  portion,  believing  that  it 
had  come  on  this  particular  night,  resolved  to  appear  with 
their  clothes  on.  A  terrible  night  in  Lower  Cliff e,  where 
nobody  thought  of  going  to  bed  at  all  ;  for  the  dreadful 
roaring  of  the  storm  and  the  cannonading  of  the  rising  sea 
on  the  shore  seemed  to  threaten  entire  destruction  to  the 
little  village  before  morning.  A  terrible  night  within  the 
park,  where  tall  trees  of  a  century's  growth  were  torn  up 
and  flung  aside  like  straws ;  where  the  rooks  were  cawing 
and  screeching  in  their  nests  ;  where  the  peacocks  were 
hidden  away  in  their  houses,  the  §wans  in  their  sheds,  and 
the  roses  in  the  parterres  were  stripped  and  beaten  to 
the  dust.  A  terrible  night,  even  within  the  strong  walls  of 
the  old  castle,  where  the  great  kitchen,  and  the  servants' 


298        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CI.IFFE. 


hall,  and  butler's  pantry,  and  the  housekeeper's  room  were 
lilled  with  terrified  footmen  and  housemaids  ;  where  Lady 
Agnes  shivered  as  she  listened  to  it  in  the  gl  ostly  solitude 
of  her  own  room  ;  where  Margaret  woke  up,  cowering  and 
shuddering  from  the  stupor  in  which  she  lay,  and  covered 
her  eyes  from  the  lightning,  and  wondered  how  he  bore  it 
in  his  prison-cell.  He,  sitting  reading  by  the  light  of  a 
flaring  candle,  in  a  little  gold  and  purple  book,  lifted  his 
pale  and  quiet  face,  and  listened  to  it  much  more  calmly 
than  any  of  them.  Much  more  calmly  than  Colonel  Shirley, 
pacing  up  and  down  in  his  own  room,  as  the  midnight  hour 
was  striking,  like  an  uneasy  ghost.  It  was  a  splendid  room 
— splendid  in  green  velvet  and  malachite,  with  walnut  pan- 
eling and  wainscoting,  the  furniture  cf  massive  mahogany, 
upholstered  in  green  billijird-cloth,  and  the  bed-hangings  of 
green  velvet  and  while  satin.  The  same  sober  tints  of 
green  and  brown  were  repeated  in  the  medallion  carpet';  a 
buhl  clock  ticked  on  the  carved  walnut  mantel,  and  over  it 
a  bright  portrait  of  Vivia  looked  down  and  smiled.  There 
was  a  small  armory  on  one  side,  full  of  Damascus  swords, 
daggers  and  poniards,  pistols  and  muskets,  ccl  spears,  bows 
and  arrows  and  riding-whips,  all  flashing  in  the  light  of  a 
bright  wood  fire  burning  on  the  marble  hearth  ;  for,  though 
the  month  was  August,  these  grand,  vast  old  rooms  v.-ere 
always  chilly,  and  on  this  tempestuous  night  particularly  so. 
A  round  table,  on  which  burned  two  wax  candles,  was 
drawn  up  before  the  fire,  and  covered  over  with  ledgers, 
check-books  and  packages  of  fresher-looking  documents 
tied  up  Vv'itli  red  tape.  A  green  cushioned  arm-chair  stood 
on  either  side  of  the  table  ;  and  though  they  were  empty 
now,  they  had  not  been  a  couple  of  hours  previously.  In 
the  first  train  to-morrow  Colonel  Shirley  was  leaving  Clifton- 
lea,  perhaps  forever,  and  going  where  glory  led  him,  and  so 
on  ;  anu  he  and  Mr.  Sweet  had  had  a  very  busy  afternoon 
and  evening  in  settling  the  complicated  accounts  of  the  es- 
tate. They  had  finished  about  ten  ;  and  Mr.  Sweet  had 
gone  home,  despite  the  rising  storm  which  was  now  at  its 
hight  and  ever  since  the  colonel  had  been  walking  up  and 
down,  up  and  down,  anxiously  impatient  for  the  morning 
that  was  to  see  him  off.  It  was  the  evening  that  had  con- 
cluded Tom  Shirley's  trial  ;  and  he,  too,  like  Margaret,  was 


\ 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  WHEEI<. 


299 


thinking  of  him  in  his  lonely  cell  ;  and  though  the  light- 
ning came  blazing  through  the  shuttered  and  curtained  win- 
dow, and  the  roar  of  the  storm,  the  sea  and  the  wind,  boomed 
an  awful  harmony  around  them,  he  scarcely  heeded  either  ; 
and  as  the  buhl  clock  vibrated  on  the  last  silvery  stroke  of 
twelve  there  was  a  tap  at  the  door,  and  then  the  handle  was 
turned,  and  the  respectful  face  of  Mr.  Hurst  looked  in. 

"  There's  a  man  down  below,  sir,  that  has  just  arrived, 
and  he  insists  on  seeing  you.  It  is  a  matter  of  life  or  death, 
he  says." 

The  colonel  stopped,  astonished,  in  his  walk. 

"  Some  one  to  see  me  on  such  a  night !     Wiio  is  he  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  sir.  He  looks  Hke  a  sailor,  in  a  pea- 
jacket  and  a  sou'-wester  hat  ;  but  the  collar  of  the  jacket  is 
turned  up,  and  the  hat  is  pulled  down,  and  there's  no  seeing 
anything  of  him  but  his  nose." 

'■  And  he  said  it  was  a  matter  of  life  or  death.  It  ought 
to  be,  certainly,  to  bring  him  out  in  a  night  like  this." 

'•  Yes,  sir.  He  said  he  would  see  you,  if  he  had  to  search 
the  house  over  for  you !  He's  a  precious  rough-looking 
customer,  sir !  " 

"  Show  him  up !  "  was  the  curt  reply.  And  Mr.  Hurst 
bowed  and  withdrew. 

He  was  leaning  against  the  carved  mantel,  one  elbow 
resting  upon  it,  and  his  eyes  fixed  thoughtfully  on  the  fire, 
when  his  visitor  entered — a  somewhat  stout  and  not  very 
tall  man,  in  a  large,  rough  jacket,  a  shining  hat,  and  splashed 
top-boots.  There  was  more  of  the  man  splashed  than  his 
boots,  for  he  was  dripping  all  over  like  a  water-god  ;  and, 
as  Mr.  Hurst  had  intimated,  his  coat-collar  was  turned  up, 
and  his  hat  pulled  down  so  that,  besides  the  nose,  nothing 
was  visible  but  a  pair  of  fierce  eyes.  This  nocturnal  in- 
truder took  the  precaution  to  turn  the  key  in  the  lock  as 
soon  as  the  valet  disappeared,  and  then  came  slowly  for- 
ward and  stood  before  the  colonel. 

"  Well,  my  friend,"  said  that  gentleman,  quietly,  "  you 
wanted  to  see  me!"  ^ 

'*  Yes,  I  did  I  " 

"  On  a  matter  of  importance,  my  servant  said." 

"  If  it  warn't  imporiant,"  said  the  man,  gruffly,  "  it  ain't 
very  likely  I'd  come  here  to  tell  it  to  you  on   a  .-'^ht  that 


300        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CLIFFE. 

ain't  fit  for  a  mad  dog  to  be  out.  It's  something  you'd  give 
half  your  estates  to  learn,  Colonel  Shirley,  or  I'm  mis- 
taken 1  " 

"  Out  with  it,  then  ;  and,  in  the  mean  time,  suppose  you 
sit  down." 

His  visitor  drew  up  one  of  the  green  arm-chairs  closer  to 
the  hearth,  and  subsiding  into  it,  without,  however,  re- 
moving his  hat,  spread  out  his  splashed  top-boots  to  the 
genial  influence  of  the  hot  wood-fire.  There  was  something 
familiar  about  the  man,  in  his  burly  figure,  rough  voice 
and  fierce  eyes  ;  but  the  colonel  could  not  remember 
where  he  had  seen  and  heard  those  items  before  ;  and  a 
long  silence  followed,  during  which  the  man  in  the  top- 
boots  looked  at  the  fire,  the  colonel*  looked  at  him,  the 
lightning  flashed,  the  wind  shrieked,  and  the  portrait  of 
Vivia  smiled  down  on  all.     At  last : 

"  If  you  merely  wish  to  warm  yourself,  my  friend,"  said 
the  colonel,  with  composure,  "  I  presume  there  is  a  fire  in 
the  servants*  hall.  Allow  me  to  inform  you  that  it  is  past 
twelve,  and  I  have  a  long  journey  to  commence  to-morrow 
morning !  " 

"  You'll  commence  no  journey  to-morrow  morning,"  the 
man  in  the  pea-jacket  coolly  said. 

"  Indeed  I  Suppose,  for  politeness'  sake,  you  remove  that 
hat,  and  let  me  see  the  gentleman  who  makes  so  extraordinary 
an   assertion  I" 

"  Just  you  hold  on  a  minute,  and  you'll  see  me  soon  enough  1 
As  I  said,  it's  a  matter  of  life  or  death  that  brings  me  here ; 
and  you'll  hear  it  all  in  time,  and  you  won't  take  any  journey 
to-morrow  1  I've  been  fool  enough  in  my  time,  Lord  knows  1 
but  I  ain't  such  a  fool  as  to  come  out  on  such  a  night,  and 
get  half-drowned  for  nothing  I  " 

"  Very  good  1     I  am  waiting  for  you  to  go  on  I " 

"  There  was  a  murder  committed  here  a  couple  of  months 
ago,"  said  the  mysterious  person  in  the  pea-jacket,  "  wasn't 
there?" 

"  Yes  I  "  said  the  colonel,  with  a  slight  recoil,  as  he  thought 
that  perhaps  the  real  murderer  sat  before  him. 

"  The  young  gentleman  as  was  murdered  was  Mr.  Leicester 
Cliff e  ;  and  another  young  gentleman,  Mr.  Tom  Shirley,  has 
been  tried  and  condemned  for  the  murder  I"  . 


•-asr?-" 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  WHEEL- 


30 1 


V: 


.,  «Yesl"  • 

"  Well,"  said  the  man  in  the  pea-jacket,  still  quite  coolly, 
"  he  is  innocent !  " 

"  I  know  it  I  " 

"Do  you?  Perhaps  you  know,  too,  who's  the  guilty 
party  ? " 

"No.     Do  you?" 

"  Yes,  I  do  1  "  said  the  man  ;  -"  and  that's  what  brings  me 
here  to  night  1 " 

Again  there  was  a  pause.  The  colonel's  lips  had  turned 
white,  but  nothing  could  shake  his  stoical  composure.  The 
man  in  the  sailor's  dress  had  his  hands  on  his  knees,  and 
was  leaning  forward,  looking  up  at  him. 

"And  who — but  first,  my  mysterious  friend,  before  any 
more  questions  are  asked  or  answered,  I  must  insist  on  your 
removing  that  hat,  and  showing  me  who  you  are." 

"  All  right  1  It's  only  a  hanging  matter,  anyway  1  Look 
here!  " 

His  visitor  rose  up,  turned  down  the  collar  of  the  pea- 
jacket,  lifted  off  the  dripping  sou'wester,  and  glared  up  at 
him  in  the  firelight  with  a  pair  of  exceedingly  green  and 
wolfish  eyes. 

"  Ah  I  "  said  the  colonel,  slowly,  *'  I  thought  it  was  you  ; 
and  you  have  come  back,  then  ? " 

"  I  have  come  back !  "  said  his  visitor,  with  a  savage  gleam 
in  his  wolfish  eyes.     "  I  have  come  back  to  be  hung,  very 

likely  ;  but  by I'll  hang  over  and  over  again  a  thousand 

times,  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  him  hang  beside  me  once  1 
hvnted  down  I  hunted  down  1  He's  been  at  it  for  the  last 
six  years,  until  he's  got  me  to  the  end  of  the  rope  at  last ! 
My  dog's  life  hasn't  been  such  a  comfort  to  me,  Lord  knows  I 
that  I  should  care  to  lose  it ;  but  when  I  do  hang,  he'll  hang 
beside  me,  by "  ^ 

"  Have  the  goodness  to  calm  yourself,  Mr.  Black,  and 
become  intelligible  1     Whom  are  you  talking  about  ?  " 

"My  name  ain't  Black,  and  you  know  it!  My  name  is 
Wildman — Jack  Wildman,  as  was  transported  for  life  ;  and  I 
don't  care  if  the  devil  heard  it !  Whom  am  I  talking  about? 
I'm  talking  about  a  man  as  I  hate,  as  I've  hated  for  years ; 
and  if  I  had  him  here,  I  would  tear  the  eyes  out  of  his  head. 


302        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CAvSTLE  CI.IFFE. 


and  the  black  heart  out  of  his  body,  and  dash  his  brains  out 
against  this  here  wall  1     I  would,  by " 

The  man's  oaths  were  appalling.  The  colonel  shuddered 
slightly  with  disgust  and  repulsion  as  he  heard  him,  and  his 
face  was  like  that  of  a  human  demon. 

"  Will  you  come  to  the  point,  Mr.  Black,  or  Mr.  Wildman, 
whichever  you  choose  ?  You  say  you  know  the  real  mur- 
derer of  Leicester  Cliffe — who  is  he  ?  " 

"Him  as  I  am  talking  of — a  yellow  devil  with  a  black 
heart,  and  his  name  is  Sweet  I " 

Colonel  Shirley  started  up,  and  grasped  the  mantel  against 
which  he  leaned. 

"Man,"  he  cried,  "  what  have  you  said  ?  "  .  • 

"  I  have  .said  the  truth,  and  I  can  prove  it  I  That  yellow 
dog,  that  I  would  strangle  if  I  had  him  near  me,  that  Lawyer 
Sweet — he  killed  the  young  gentleman  1  I  saw  him  with 
my  own  eyes  !  " 

The  colonel  stood  looking  a  hundred  questions  he  could 
not  speak — struck  for  the  moment  perfectly  speechless. 

"  Yes  ;  you  may  wonder,"  said  Mr.  Black,  subsiding  into  his 
chair  again,  and  letting  himself  cool  down  like  a  bottle  of 
ginger  beer  after  the  first  explosion  ;  "  but  it's  true  as  gospel  1 
1  saw  him  do  the  deed  myself,  the  night  of  the  wedding  ;  and 
Mr.  Tom  Shirley — he  is  innocent  1  " 

"  Tell  me  all,"  said  the  colonel,  finding  voice  ;  "  and,  for 
Heaven's  sake,  do  it  instantly  1  " 

"  I  am  a-going  to.  I  have  taken  all  this  journey  in  the 
wind  and  rain  to-night  to  do  it ;  and  I'll  hunt  him  down  as 
lie  has  hunted  me,  if  they  were  to  hang,  and  draw,  and  quar- 
ter me  the  next  minute !  You  know  that  evening  I  went 
away  ;  and  I  don't  think  anybody  here  ever  heard  of  me 
since." 

"  Go  on  !  "  - 

"  I  had  been  out  that  day,  and  it  was  nigh  on  to  sundown 
when  I  came  home.  I  found  iny  old  mother  on  the  ground, 
just  recovering  from  a  fit,  and  just  able  to  tell  me  that  that 
3'ellow  villain  had  been  with  her,  and  was  going  to  tell  all — 
the  secret  he  had  kept  so  long.  That  was  the  first  I  ever 
knew  of  Barbara's  being  your  daughter  instead  of  mine ; 
though  I  did  know  he  had  some  power  over  the  old  woman 
I  could  not  get  at  the  bottom  of.     Whatever  he  may  s^.y,  he 


i 

V 


; 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  WHEEI.. 


303 


f 


knowed  it  all  along ;  and  it  was  that  made  him  many  her. 
From  the  time  he  met  you  in  the  graveyard,  the  night  you 
buried  your  wife,  he  never  lost  sight  of  my  wife  and  that 
baby.  But  when  she  told  me  it  all,  and  how  he  threatened 
to  peach  about  my  being  a  returned  transport,  I  believe  the 
very  old  Satan  got  into  me,  and  I  started  up,  and  went  out 
to  find  him  and  kill  him.  They  say  a  worm  will  turn  if  trod- 
den on  ;  he  had  trodden  on  me  long  enough,  Lord  knows  I 
and  it  was  my  turn  now.  If  I  had  met  him  in  the  middle  of 
the  town,  with  all  the  people  in  it  looking  on,  I  would  have 
torn  his  throat  out  as  I  would  a  mad  dog's.  I  would  have 
done  it  if  they  was  to  burn  me  alive  for  it  the  next  minute  I 
As  I  got  up  near  his  house,  I  saw  him  come  out,  and  I  hid 
behind  a  tree  to  watch  him.  Before  he  got  far,  he  stopped, 
and  began  watching  somebody  himself ;  it  was  Mr.  Leicester 
Cliffe,  who  came  along  High  street  without  seeing  either  of 
us,  and  went  in.  Then  Sweet  dodged  round  the  back  way, 
and  went  into  the  house  after  him,  and  I  was  left  alone  wait- 
ing behind  the  tree,  and  waiting  for  my  game  to  conic  out. 
I  don't  know  exactly  what  passed,  but  I  have  a  notion  that 
Mr.  Leicester  wanted  Barbara  to  run  away  with  him,  and 
that  the  yellow  viper  was  listening,  and  heard  it  all.  It  was 
nigh  onto  dark  when  Mr.  Leicester  came  out,  and  set  off  like 
a  steam-engine  toward  Lower  Cliffe,  to  take  a  short  cut,  I 
expect,  to  the  castle  ;  and  Sweet  came  sneaking  after  him, 
like  the  snake  in  the  grass  he  is.  There  we  was,  a-dodging 
after  each  other,  the  three  of  us,  and  Sweet  and  me  trying  to 
keep  out  of  sight  as  well  as  we  could,  and  getting  into  alley- 
v/ays  and  behind  trees  whenever  we  saw  anybody  coming. 
There  wasn't  many  out  to  sfee  us  for  that  matter ;  for  all  the 
town,  and  the  village,  too,  was  up  in  the  park ;  and  Mr.  Lei- 
cester went  up  through  the  park  gates,  and  we  two  sneaked 
after  him  without  meeting  a  soul.  Instead  of  going  straight 
up  to  the  castle,  as  he'd  ought  to  do,  Mr.  Leicester  turned 
off  to  that  lonesome  spot  they  call  the  Nun's  Grave;  and 
still  we  two  was  dodging  in  through  the  trees  after  him. 
When  he  got  there  he  stopped,  and  stood,  with  his  arms 
crossed,  looking  down  at  it ;  and  there  was  the  yellow  devil 
behind  him,  and  I  could  see  his  face  in  the  moonlight,  and 
he  looked  more  like  a  devil  than  ever.  There  was  a  club 
lying  on  the  grass,  just  as  if  Old  Nick  had  left  it  there  for 


U\ 


111 

111 

ail 


304        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTILE  CLIFFE. 

his  favorite  son — a  big  knotted  stick,  that  would  have  felled 
an  ox  ;  and  Sweet  he  raised  it,  his  grinning  mouth  grinning 
more  than  you  ever  saw  it,  and,  with  one  blow,  knocked  the 
young  gentleman  stiff  on  the  ground  I  " 

Mr.  Black  paused  in  his  long  narration  to  turn  the  other 
side  of  his  steaming  legs  to  the  influence  of  the  blaze,  and 
to  look  up  searchingly  at  the  colonel.  But  as  that  gentle- 
man stood  as  rigid  as  the  marble  guest  in  Don  Giovanni, 
and  made  no  comment,  he  went  on  : 

•*  The  minute  he  did  the  deed,  as  if  he  knew  his  work 
was  finished,  he  dropped  the  club,  made  a  rush  through 
the  trees,  and  I  lost  him.  So  there  I  was  foiled  again, 
with  the  young  gentleman  lying  as  stiff  if  he  had  been  a 
month  dead  at  my  feet.  I  shouldn't  at  all  have  minded 
being  hung  for  murdering  Sweet ;  I  wouldn't  have  cared  a 
curse  for  it  ;  but  I  didn't  want  to  hang  for  a  murder  I  hadn't 
done  ;  so  I  took  leg  bail,  and  got  away  from  the  place  as  he 
had  done.  I  knew  Cliftonlea  would  be  too  hot  to  hold  me 
now.  I  didn't  know  but  what  that  lying  villain  would  make 
me  out  to  be  the  muderer ;  so  my  notion  was  to  be  off  in 
the  evening  train  for  London,  and  take  my  time  for  revenge. 
Just  as  I  got  through  the  park  gates,  who  should  I  see  but 
Barbara  on  the  beach,  pushing  off  in  a  boat  from  the  shore. 
I  sung  out  to  her,  but  it  was  no  use  ;  she  wouldn't  stop  ;  so  I 
just  swam  up  to  her,  got  on  board,  and  asked  her  wnere  she 
was  gping.  I  don't  know  what  she  said.  I  think  she  was  out 
of  her  mind ;  but  I  found  out  she  was  running  away  from 
hijn — from  Cliftonlea ;  and  then  it  struck  me,  as  I  was  in  the 
boat,  the  best  thing  I  could  do  w.vs  to  row  to  Lisleham,  take' 
the  cars  for  London  there,  and  so  throw  folks  off  the  scent. 
And  that  is  the  way  it  happened  you  couldn't  hear  any- 
thing from  either  of  us."  <■     •        •     -- 

"  Well,"  said  the  colonel,  "  you  went  to  London  ?  " 

"  No  we  didn't.  The  first  person  we  met  on  the  wharf  at 
Lisleham  was  an  old  chum  of  mine.  He  had  been  with  me 
from  New  South  Wales,  but  he  was  well  off  now,  and  the 
captain  of  a  schooner.  I  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  tell  him 
the  t)olice  were  on  my  tracks  and  I  was  sure  of  safe  quarters 
on  -loard  his  craft  until  the  heat  of  the  hunt  was  over.  We 
sailed  that  very  day  for  Dover;  and  before  we  were  two 
hours  out,  Barbara  was  down  raving  mad  with  brain  fever. 


i: 


'-:>' 


•»r 


N 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  WHEEI.. 


305 


doctor  on 
way  she 


There  was  no 

of   it    the   best 

stayed    awhile  in  France, 

before  she  stopped  raving 

English  papers  in   Dover, 

murder  ;   I    saw 

knew  I  had  held 

have 


board,  and  she  had  to  get  out 

could ;  but  we  made  the  voyage, 

and  was  back  in  Lisleham  long 

or  knew   anybody.     I  got  some 

and  there  I  saw  all  about   the 

how    Mr.  Tom  was  took  up  for   it ;  and  I 

my  tongue    about  long  enough.     I  would 

come  posting  back  by   express  ;  but  I  couldn't  leave 


Barbara  alone  in  the  schooner,  and  1  knew  I  was  time  enough. 
We  got  in  two  hours  ago.  The  schooner  is  at  anchor  out  there 
now ;  and,  in  spite  of  the  storm,  I  came  on  shore.  And 
now,  sir,  that's  the  whole  story.  Sweet  he's  the  murderer, 
and  I'll  see  him  hung  for  it,  if  I  hang  myself  beside  him." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  The  storm  seemed  to  increase 
in  fury,  and  the  uproar  without  had  become  terrific.  The 
colonel  lifted  his  head  and  listened  to  it.  . 

"  Barbara,  you  say,  is  in  the  schooner  ?  " 

•'  She  is — but  more  like  a  ghost  or  a  skeleton  than  any- 
thing living  1 " 

"  You're  sure  the  schooner  is  safely  anchored,  and  not 
exposed  to  the  fury  of  this  storm  ?  " 

Mr.  Black  opened  his  mouth  to  reply  in  the  affirmative, 
when  he  was  ominously  stopped  by  the  sharp  report  of  a 
minute-gun  echoing  through  the  roar  of  the  hurricane,  and 
rapidly  followed  by  another  and  another. 

"I  thought  it  would  come  to   that,"    said    the    colonel. 

"  The  coast  in  the  morning  will  be  strewn  with  wrecks  1 
I  am  going  down  to  the  shore." 

"  All  right,"  said  Mr.  Black ;  "  we  can't  be  of  any  use,  you 
know ;  but  I  have  got  cramped  with  sitting  here,  and  want 
to  stretch  my  legs  a  bit.      Lord,  how  it's  storming  1 " 

The  colonel  rapidly  donned  cap  and  overcoat,  and  fol- 
lowed by  Mr.  Black,  left  his  bright  fire  and  pleasant  room, 
and  hastened  out  into  the  night  and  storm.  The  sharp  re- 
port of  the  minute-guns  still  rung  through  the  uproar  but 
though  they  were  met  in  the  door  by  a  rush  of  wind  and 
rain  that  for  an  instant  beat  them  back — though  the  light- 
ning still  flashed,  and  the  thunder  rolled,  the  storm  had 
passed  its  meridian,  and  was  subsiding.  Dawn  was  lifting  a 
leaden  eye,  too,  above  the  mountains  of  black  cloud,  and 
lighting  up  with  a  pale  and  ghpstly  glimmer  the  black  and 


1 
i. 


I . 


I 


^ 


306       THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CI.IFFE. 

foam-crested  sea  and  the  storm-beaten  earth.  Long  before 
they  reached  the  shore  in  the  lashing  tempest,  the  mournful 
minute-guns  had  ceased  their  cry  for  help,  and  the  vessel, 
whatever  it  was,  must  inevitably  have  sunk  with  all  its  crew. 
Despite  the  wind,  and  rain,  and  lightning,  the  shore 
was  lined  when  they  reached  it  by  the  fishermen,  and 
thrown  up  high  on  the  shingly  beach  were  broken  spars, 
fragments  of  wreck,  and,  most  ghastly  sight  of  all,  the  stark 
bodies  of  drowned  men.  A  crowd  had  collected  in  one  spot 
around  a  man  who,  it  had  turned  out,  was  the  unly  survivor, 
and  who  was  telling  the  story  of  the  disaster,  as  the  new- 
comers came  up. 

*'  We  were  scudding  along  like  Old  Nick  in  a  gale  of  wind,'* 
the  man  was  saying,  "our  spars  snapped  off  like  knitting- 
needles,  when  we  run  afoul  of  the  other  craft,  smashed  her 
like  an  egg  shell,  and  down  she  went,  head  foremost,  like  a 
stone." 

A  shrill  screech  from  Mr.  Black,  and  off  he  darted  like 
one  possessed.  Something  had  just  been  washed  ashore, 
something  his  quick  eye  had  caught,  and  over  which  he  was 
bending  now  with  a  face  as  ghastly  as  those  of  the  drowned 
men.  With  an  awful  presentiment,  the  colonel  followed  him, 
and  his  presentiment  was  realized  to  its  utmost  extent  of 
horror.  In  the  ooze  and  mud  of  the  beach,  her  long  hair 
streaming  around  her,  her  soaking  dress  clinging  to  her 
slender  form,  lay  the  drowned  heiress  of  Castle  Cliffe,  with 
her  face  in  the  loathsome  slime. 


\ 


RETRIBUTION. 


307 


CHAPTER    XXXII. 

RETRIBUTION.  '; 

Vhomme  propose ^  mats  Dieu  dispose!  You  know  the 
proverb  Colonel  Shirley  was  not  the  only  one  who  had 
intended  starting  on  a  journey  that  morning,  and  was  doomed 
to  disappointment.  Mr.  Sylvester  Sweet  having  settled  all 
the  affairs  of  the  estate,  and  having  nothing  to  do  for  the 
next  month  or  two,  intended  in  his  bereavement  to  give 
himself  a  long  holiday,  and  to  go  post-haste  to  Paris. 
Perhaps,  too,  being  such  an  uncommonly  tender-hearted 
gentleman,  he  did  not  wish  to  stay  to  witness  the  execution 
of  his  young  friend,  Tom  Shirley — to  drown  his  grief  fpr  the 
recent  loss  of  his  wife  in  the  delights  of  that  delightful  city. 
At  all  events,  whatever  his  motives,  Mr.  Sweet  was  going  on 
a  journey,  a'"«d  was  sitting  down  to  an  early  breakfast  in  the 
back  parlor.  Most  elaborately  was  he  got  up ;  always 
radiant,  he  was  considerably  more  so  this  morning  than 
ever ;  his  buff  waistcoat  had  the  gloss  of  spick-span  newness, 
his  breast-pin  and  studs  were  dazzling,  the  opal  rings  he  wore 
on  his  fingers  made  you  wink,  his  pocket-handkerchief  was 
of  the  brightest  yellow  China  silk,  his  Malacca  cane  had  a 
gold  head,  his  canary-colored  gloves  were  as  new  as  his 
waistcoat,  and  his  watch-chain  with  its  glist'^ning  ornaments, 
his  yellow  whiskers  and  hair,  and  white  teeth  gleamed  out 
with  more  than  ordinary  brilliancy,  and  his  smile  was  so 
bland  and  debonair,  it  would  have  done  your  heart  good  to 
see  it.  He  had  so  far  recovered  from  his  late  bereavement 
that  he  laughed  a  little  silvery  laugh  as  he  sat  down  to 
breakfast — whether  at  it,  or  at  his  own  cleverness,  or  at  his 
expected  two  months'  holiday,  would  be  hard  to  say.  So  he 
was  sitting,  pleasantly  sipping  his  Mocha,  and  eating  his 
eggs  and  rolls,  when  the  door-bell  rung  sharply ;  and  too 
minutes  after.  Colonel  Shirley  stood  in  the  doorway,  regard- 
ing him.     Mr.  Sweet  arose  in  a  little  surprise. 


3o8        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CUFFE. 


"  Good -morning,  colonel.  This  is  an  unexpected  pleasure. 
I  thought  you  were  off  in  the  six  o'clock  train  ? " 

"  I  have  been  delayed  1  Will  you  be  good  enough  to 
order  your  horse,  and  ride  back  with  me  to  Castle  Cliff e  ? " 

"  Certainly,  colonel  I  "  But  Mr.  Sweet  hesitated  a  little, 
with  his  hand  on  the  bell-rope.  "  I  have  purchased  my 
ticket  for  London,  but  if  the  business  is  pressing " 

"  It  it  most  pressing  1      Order  your  horse  immediately  I  " 

Mr.  Sweet  knew  better  than  to  disobey  the  Indian  officer 
when  his  dark  eye  flashed  and  his  voice  rung  out  in  that 
ringing  tone  of  command ;  so  he  ordered  his  horse,  drew 
oil  his  overcoat,  and  substituted  buckskin  gloves  for  the 
yellow  kids,  with  a  little  disappointment  and  a  great  deal  of 
curiosity  in  his  sallow  face.  But  his  unceremonious  com- 
panion seemed  no  way  inclined  to  satisfy  curiosity,  and  was 
in  a  mood  Mr.  Sweet  dared  not  question.  So  they  mounted 
their  horses,  and  drove  through  the  town  as  rapidly  as  they 
had  ridden  once  before,  when  on  the  search  for  Barbara. 
The  storm  had  subsided,  the  rain  had  entirely  ceased,  but 
the  wind  still  blew  in  long,  lamentable  blasts  ;  and  between  ^ 
his  keeping  his  seat  in  the  saddle  and  his  hat  on  his  head, 
Mr.  Sweet  had  enough  to  do  until  Castle  Cliff e  was  gained. 
And  still,  in  grim  silence,  its  master  strode  into  the  hall  and 
into  the  morning-room,  where  that  memorable  inquest  had 
been  held,  and  where  Mr.  Sweet  again  found  Mr.  Channing, 
the  magistrate,  and  the  head  doctor  of  the  town.  Lying  on 
a  long  table,  at  the  further  end  of  the  room,  was  something  - 
that  looked  like  a  human  figure  ;  but  it  was  so  muffled  from 
sight,  in  a  great  cloak,  that  he  could  scarcely  tell  what  to 
make  of  it.  He  turned  from  it  to  the  others,  and  their  stern 
faces  and  ominous  silence  sent  a  sudden  and  strange  chill  to 
his  heart.  Trying  to  look  easy  and  composed,  he  pulled  out 
his  watch  and  glanced  at  it. 

"  Half-past  seven  I  If  the  business  is  brief,  perhaps  I  may 
be  in  time  to  catch  the  nine  o'clock  train  yet." 

"  You  need  not  trouble  yourself  about  the  nine  o'clock 
train.     You  will  not  catch  it  I  "  said  the  colonel,  frigidly. 

"  Excuse  me !  Of  course  I'm  willing  to  wait  any  time  you 
please  !  I  merely  thought  it  might  have  been  some  unim- 
portant matter  we  had  forgotten  last  night.  A  terrible  night 
last  night,  gentlemen — was  it  not  ? "  -^  ,.^ 


'4 


RETRIBUTION. 


309 


No  one  spoke.  Mr.  Sweet  felt  as  if  their  three  pairs  of 
eyes  were  three  pairs  of  burning-glasses  scorching  into  his 
very  skin.     At  last : 

"  Your  wife  has  returned,  Mr.  Sweet  1 "  said  the  colonel, 
in  a  voice  that  thrilled  with  the  same  nameless  terror  io  Mr. 
Sweet's  inmost  heart. 

"  Returned  !     When — where — how  ? " 

"  Last  night,  in  the  storm  I  " 

"Good  heaven  I     Alone?" 
'     "  Quite  alone !  " 

"  And  where  is  she  now  ? " 
,  "  She  is  here  1     Will  you  come  and  look  at  her  ? " 

He  walked  toward  the  table  whereon  the  muffled  figure 
lay.  Mr.  Sweet,  with  his  knees  knocking  together,  followed. 
The  muffling  was  removed,  the  dead  face,  livid  and  bruised, 
the  dark  eyes  staring  wide  open,  the  white  teeth  gleaming 
behind  the  blue  lips,  as  if  she  were  grinning  up  at  him  a 
ghastly  grin.  It  was  an  awful  sight ;  and  Mr.  Sweet  recoiled 
with  a  sort  of  shriek,  and  made  a  frantic  rush  for  the  door. 
But  a  man  in  a  blue  coat  and  brass  buttons,  the  captain  of 
the  Cliftonlea  police,  stood  suddenly  between  him  and  it,  and 
laid  his  hand  forcibly  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Not  so  fast,  Mr.  Sweet  1     You  are  my  prisoner !  " 

That  brought  Mr.  Sweet  to  his  senses  faster  than  cold  water 
or  smelling  salts.  He  stood  stock-still  and  looked  at  the  man. 

"What?" 

"  Just  so,  sir.  You  are  my  prisoner  !  I  arrest  you  for  the 
murder  of  Leicestei  Cliffe  1 " 

The  shock  was  so  sudden,  so  unexpected;  his  nerves 
were  so  unstrung  by  the  appalling  sight  he  had  just  seen, 
that  his  self-control  left  him.  His  sallow  face  turned  to  a 
blue  white,  his  eyes  seemed  starting,  he  stood  there  paralyzed, 
glaring  at  the  man.  Then,  with  a  yell  that  was  more  like  the 
cry  of  a  wild  beast  than  anything  human,  he  dashed  his 
clenched  fist  into  the  constable's  face,  tore  him  from  the 
door,  rushed  out,  and  into  the  arms  of  Mr.  Peter  Black,  who 
stood  airing  his  eye  at  the  keyhole.  There  was  another 
screech,  wilder  than  the  first — an  appalling  volley  of  oaths, 
and  then  Mr.  Black's  hand  was  twisted  in  Mr.  Sweet's 
canary-colored  necktie,  and  Mr.  Sweet  was  black  in  the  face, 
and  foaming  at  the  mouth.     Then  he  was  down,  and  Peter 


3IO       THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CI^IFFE. 


Black's  knee  was  on  his  breast,  and  the  lawyer's  eyes  burst- 
uig  from  their  sockets,  and  the  blood  flowing  from  his 
mouth,  nose  and  ears,  but  the  others  crowded  round,  and 
were  tearing  the  avenger  off.  Not  in  time,  however ;  for  a 
murderous  clasp  knife,  with  which  the  returned  transport 
was  wont,  in  days  gone  by,  to  slice  his  bread  and  beef,  was 
out,  and  up  to  the  hilt  in  the  lawyer's  breast.  The  hot  blood 
spouted  upon  his  face  as  he  withdrew  the  blade ;  but  they 
flung  him  off,  and  the  constable  lifted  the  bleeding  form 
from  the  ground. 

"  I  have  done  it !  "  said  Mr.  Black,  whose  own  face  was 
purple,  and  whose  teeth  were  clenched.  **  I  swore  I  would, 
and  now  you  may  hang  me  as  soon  as  you  like  I  " 

Both  were  brought  back  into  the  morning-room.  Mr. 
Black,  like  a  perfect  lamb,  offering  no  resistance,  and  Mr. 
Sweet,  altogether  unable  to  do  so.  He  lay  a  ghastly  spec- 
tacle in  the  arms  of  the  constable,  catching  his  breath  in 
short  gasps,  and  the  life  blood  pumping  out  of  the  wound 
with  each  one. 

"  Lay  him  down  on  this  sofa,"  said  the  doctor,  "  and  stand 
out  of  the  way  until  I  examine  the  wound." 

Mr.  Sweet  was  not  insensible.  As  they  laid  him  down 
and  the  doctor  bent  over  him,  he  fixed  his  protruding  eyes 
on  that  functionary's  face  with  an  intensely  eager  look.  The 
examination  soon  ended,  the  doctor  arose  and  shook  his 
head  dismally. 

'*  It's  of  no  use — the  wound  is  fatal  I  If  you  have  anything 
to  say,  Mr.  Sweet,  you  had  better  say  it  at  once,  for  your 
hours  are  numbered  1  " 

Mr.  Sweet's  face,  by  no  earthly  possibility,  could  turn 
more  ghastly  than  it  was  ;  so  he  only  let  his  head  fall  back 
with  a  hollow  groan,  and  lay  perfectly  motionless.  Mr. 
Channing,  with  a  business-like  air,  drew  up  a  seat  and  sat 
down  beside  him. 

"  You  have  heard  what  the  doctor  says.  Sweet !  You  had 
better  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  before  you  go  1 " 

Another  hollow  groan  was  Mr.  Sweet's  answer.  All  his 
spirits  seemed  to  have  fled,  leaving  nothing  behind  but  most 
abject  terror. 

"  Out  with  it.  Sweet !  it  may  ease  your  conscience  1  We 
will  send  for  a  clergyman,  if  you  like  1  " 


RETRIBUTION. 


3" 


"  No,  it  would  be  of  no  use  !  he  could  do  me  no  good  ! 
Oh-oh-oh  I  "     Another  prolonged  and  dismal  groan. 

"  Commence,  then,  at  once — do  one  act  of  justice  before 
you  die  !  It  was  you  who  murdered  Leicester  Cliffe — was  it 
not?  "  said  Mr.  Channing,  briskly  producing  note-book  and 
pencil.  . 

•»  It  was  !     It's  of  no  use  denying  it  now  !  " 

"  Why  did  you  do  it  ?     What  was  your  motive  ?  " 

"  Jealousy  !  I  heard  him  urging  my  wife  to  elope  with  him. 
I  was  mad  with  jealousy,  and  I  follov.c  cl   nnd  killed  him  1  " 

"  You  came  hare  directly  after  the  murder  ?  " 

"I  did." 

*'  Would  you  have  let  Tom  Shirley  hang  for  your  crime  ?  " 

*'  How  could  I  help  it  ?  Either  he  or  I  must  hang  for  it  1 
Oh-oh-oh-oh  1  "     Another  prolonged  groan. 

"  You've  been  a  nice  hypocrite !  "  said  Mr.  Channing, 
taking  notes  rapidly.  "  Is  this  other  story  about  your  wife 
having  been  the  daughter  of  Colonel  Shirley  quite  true  ?  " 

"  It  is — every  word  of  it!  "  > 

"  Not  every  word  1     You  knew  it  all  along,  of  course  ?  " 
.  "  Yes  !  " 

"  You  said  you  didn't,  though.  And  Miss  Vivia  is  really 
the  daughter  of  that  man  at  the  door  ? " 

"  Yes — curse  him  I  "  cried  Mr.  Sweet,  with  momentary 
fury  ;  "  and  he  is  an  escaped  transport ;  and  you  know  what 
the  penalty  of  that  is  ?  " 

"  I  know  very  well  1  Another  thing,  Mr.  Sweet,  Black 
mentioned,  while  the  colonel  was  absent  fetching  you,  that 
before  you  struck  Leicester  Cliflfe,  a  mysterious  voice  arose 
from  the  grave  and  told  him  his  doom  was  come,  or  some- 
thing to  that  effect.  Can  you  account  for  that  little  cir- 
cumstance ? " 

"  Very  easily  !  I  am  a  ventriloquist  1  And  I  have  made 
use  of  my  power  more  than  once  to  terrify  Barbara  and  him, 
at  the  Nun's  Grave  !  " 

"  Humph  !  They  say  open  confessions  are  good  for  the 
soul,  and  yours  ought  to  feel  relieved  after  this  I  Is  there 
anything  else,  colonel  ?  "~ 

'*  I  think  not !     What  miserable  dupes  we  have  all  been  !  " 

"  Ah  1  you  may  say  that !  It's  a  thousand  pities  so  clever 
a  rascal  should  have  cheated  the  hangn^an  1 


it 


312        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTXE  CLIFFE. 


it 


"  He  hasn't  cheated  him  1 "  said  the  doctor,  composedly. 

he  is  no  more  likely  to  die  than  I  am  I  The  stab  is  a  mere 
trifle,  that  some  lint  and  linen  bandages  will  set  all  right  in 
no  time.  Colonel,  ring  the  bell,  and  order  both  articles, 
while  I  stop  the  blood  which  is  flowing  rather  fast  I  " 

"  You  said — ^you  said — "  gasped  Mr.  Sweet,  with  horrible 
eagerness.     "  You  said  the  wound  was  fatal !  " 

"  So  I  did,  my  dear  sir  I  so  I  did  1  but  I  just  wanted  to 
frighten  you  a  little,  and  so  get  all  the  truth.  All  is  fair  in 
war,  you  know,  and  white  lies  are  excusable  in  such  cases ! 
Here's  the  lint — now  the  bandages — thank  you,  colonel  I 
Don't  twitch  so — I  wouldn't  hurt  you  for  the  world  I  Please 
the  pigs,  we'll  have  you  all  ready  to  stand  your  trial  in  a 
week  I  " 

Every  one  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief,  not  even  except- 
ing Mr.  Black,  who  felt,  upon  after-thought,  a  little  sorry  he 
had  ended  Mr.  Sweet's  sufferings  so  soon.  But  whether 
from  the  reaction  or  the  loss  of  blood,  Mr.  Sweet  himself 
had  no  sooner  heard  the  conclusion  of  the  doctor's  speech 
than  he  fell  back  on  the  sofa,  fainting. 

"  Can  he  be  removed,  doctor  ?  "  asked  the  colonel. 

**  Of  course  he  can  I  Put  him  in  the  carriage  and  drive 
slowly,  and  he  can  go  to  the  jail  as  safely  as  any  of  us  I  I 
shall  make  a  point  of  conscience  of  visiting  him  there  every 
day.  I  never  knew  a  gentleman  I  shall  have  more  pleasure 
in  restoring  to  health  than  my  dear  friend,  Mr.  Sweet  1 " 

"  Of  course  Tom  is  free  to  leave  immediately,  Mr.  Chan- 
ning?  " 

"  Of  course,  colonel,  of  course  1  Poor  boy  !  how  shame- 
fully he  has  been  wronged  1  and  what  a  providential  thing 
the  wrong  did  not  go  still  further  !  " 

"  It's  all  right  now  1  "  said  the  doctor  ;  "  the  wheel  turns 
slowly,  but  it  turns  surely  !  Blood  will  cry  for  vengeance, 
and  murder  will  out  1 " 

A  carriage  was  ordered  round,  and  the  blinds  closely 
drawn  down.  Mr.  Sweet,  still  insensible,  was  placed  on  the 
back  seat  in  charge  of  the  doctor  and  Mr.  Channing,  and 
Mr.  Black  and  the  constable  were  accommodated  with  the 
opposite  one.  The  colonel  mounted  his  horse  and  rode  on 
in  advance,  to  bring  glad  tidings  of  great  joy  to  Tom  Shir- 
ley in  his  prison  cell.  ,^ 


THE  FAI,Iv  OF  THE  CURTAIN. 


313 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  CURTAIN. 


The  sun  shines  on  the  just  and  the  unjust — yes,  for  it 
shone  one  sunny  afternoon  on  the  glistening  spires,  and 
domes,  and  palaces,  and  thronged  paves  of  a  great  city,  and 
on  a  large,  quiet-looking  gray  buildmg,  enshrined  in  tall 
trees,  away  from  the  ceaseless  hum  of  busy  life  in  a  remote 
street,  and  the  great  city  was  gay,  brilliant,  wicked  Paris, 
and  the  quiet  gray  building  among  the  trees  was  the  Ursu- 
line  Convent.  It  is  fourteen  months  since  we  were  in  Clif- 
tonlea,  fourteen  months  since  Colonel  Shirley  and  Tom  left 
for  the  frozen  and  blood-stained  shores  of  Russia ;  fourteen 
months  since  Cliftonlea  was  thrown  into  a  state  of  unparal- 
leled excitement  upon  seeing  Mr.  Sweet  with  a  rope  round 
his  neck,  dancing  on  nothing  ;  fourteen  months  since  Mar- 
garet Shirley  joined  the  band  of  ^evoted  women  who  fol- 
lowed Florence  Nightingale  to  the  Crimea.  Fourteen 
months  is  a  tolerable  time,  with  room  for  many  changes. 
The  war  was  over,  the  allies  had  gone  back  to  their  own 
countries.  Colonel  Shirley  had  won,  by  hard  fighting,  a 
baronetage,  and  the  Cross  of  the  Bath,  and  was  now  General 
Sir  Cliffe  Shirley.  Margaret  had  joined  the  Sisters  of 
Charity,  whom  she  met  in  the  hospitals,  and  was  now  the 
humble  servant  of  the  very  humblest  class  in  London ;  and 
poor  Tom  Shirley  was  lying  in  a  soldier's  grave  outside  the 
walls  of  Sebastopol.  But  all  this  was  passed,  and  on  this 
summer  afternoon  you  are  going  through  an  iron  gate,  up 
an  avenue  of  golden  laburnums,  and  are  ringing  a  bell  at 
the  great  convent  door.  An  old  portress,  sitting  in  an  arm- 
chair, with  her  missal  on  her  lap,  the  beads  of  her  rosary 
slipping  through  her  lingers,  and  dozing  over  both,  admits 
you,  and  you  pass  through  a  long  hall  into  the  convent 


314       'THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CI.IFFE. 


church.  The  sunshine  coming  through  the  magnificent 
stained-glass  windows  fills  it  with  a  solemn  gloom  ;  an  im- 
mense golden  lamp,  suspended  from  the  carved  ceiling  by  a 
long  chain,  burns  before  the  grand  altar.  Superb  pictures 
line  the  walls,  lovely  statues  look  down  from  niches  and 
brackets,  and  the  holy- water  fount  at  the  door  is  a  perfect 
miracle  of  exquisite  carving.  The  solemn  air  is  filled  with 
music  ;  for  a  young  nun,  lovely  of  face,  slender  of  figure,  sits 
up  in  the  organ-loft,  playing  and  singing  the  "  Stabat  Mater." 
It  is  Sister  Ignacia,  once  Mademoiselle  de  St.  Hilary — Vivia 
Shirley's  old  friend,  who  might  have  been  Vivia  Shirley's 
sister,  and  she  looks  like  the  pictures  of  St.  Cecilia,  as  the 
grand  notes  of  the  organ  wail  sadly  ouL  and  she  sings  the 
mournful  words :  -^     - 

"  Stabat  Mater  dolorosa, 
Juxtem  crucem  lachrymosa,  '    , 

■  ^  Dum  pendabat  filiiis." 

One  other  figure  only  is  in  the  church,  and  it  kneels  on  a 
prie-dieu  before  a  magnificent  picture,  a  copy  of  Paul 
Rubens'  Descent  from  the  Cross.  There  Mary  Magdalen 
kneels  with  her  floating  golden  hair  falling  around  her  like 
a  veil,  her  lovely  face  uplifted  ;  there  stands  the  Mater 
Dolorosa,  her  colorless  face  and  upraised  eyes  full  of  her 
great  woe  ;  there  stands  John,  the  beloved  apostle,  with  his 
beautiful  boyish  face,  aad  there  hangs  the  drooping  livid 
figure  they  are  slowly  lifting  to  the  ground.  It  is  not  a  nun 
who  kneels  before  this  picture,  not  even  a  novice ;  for  she 
wears  no  veil,  either  white  or  black ;  her  golden  hair,  like 
Magdalen's  own,  is  pushed  from  her  face  and  confined  in  a 
silken  net ;  her  dress  is  unrelieved  black,  but  she  wears 
neither  cross  nor  rosary  at  her  girdle.  You  cannot  see  her 
face,  it  is  hidden  in  her  hands  as  she  kneels ;  but  you  can 
tell  she  is  young,  by  the  exquisite  beauty  of  those  hands, 
and  the  slender,  delicate  figure.  While  she  kneels  and 
j^rays,  and  the  young  nun  sings  the  "  Stabat  Mater,"  the 
door  softly  opens.  Sister  Anastasia,  the  old  portress,  glides 
in  and  taps  her  softly  on  the  shoulder,  and  the  kneeler  rises 
and  follows  her  out  of  the  vestibule.  You  can  see  now  that 
the  face  is  youthful  and  lovely,  made  more  lovely  by  the 
marvelous  purity  and  calm  that  looks  at  you  througlv  the  dark 


.1 


M 


TH^  FAI,!,  OF  THE  CURTAIN. 


315 


"i 


violet  eyes  than  by  any  perfection  of  feature  or  of  com- 
plexion ;  for  the  face  is  thin,  wan  and  wasted  to  a  degree. 
Sister  Anastasia  takes  a  card  out  of  her  pocket,  and  hands 
it  to  the  young  lady,  who  becomes  livid  crimson  the  moment 
she  looks  at  it,  and  who  covers  her  face  with  her  hands,  and 
turns  away  even  from  the  averted  eyes  of  the  portress. 
*'  He  is  in  the  parlor,"  Sister  Anastasia  says  with  phlegm, 
and  goes  back  to  her  missal,  and  her  rosary,  and  her  doz- 
ing. 
""-  The  young  girl  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  same  attitude, 
her  bowed  face  hidden  in  her  hands ;  and  then  starting  sud- 
denly up,  hastened  along  a  corridor,  up  a  flight  of  stairs,  and 
tapped  at  a  door  on  the  landing  above,  ^  "  Enter,"  said  a 
sweet  voice  ;  and  obeying  the  order,  the  young  lady  went  in 
'  and  knelt  down  at  the  feet  of  the  stately  Lady  Abbess,  who 
sat  with  a  pile  of  letters  before  her,  reading. 

"  Well,  dear  child,"  said  the  lady,  laying  her  hand  kindly 
on  the  bowed  head,  "  what  is  it  ?  " 

For  all  answer  the  young  lady  placed  in  her  hand  the  card 
she  had  just  received,  and  bowed  her  face  lower  than  ever. 
The  nun  looked  at  it  gravely  at  first,  and  then,  with  a  little 
smile : 

"  Well,  my  dear,  it  is  very  well>  you  have  my  permission 
to  receive  your  visitor." 

'*  But  not  alone,  mother  I  dear  mother,  not  alone  1  " 

The  lady  still  sat  and  looked  at  her  with  the  same  quiet 
smile. 

"  Will  you  not  come  with  me,  mother  ?  I — I — should  like 
it  so  much  1 " 

*>  Certainly,  my  dear,  if  you  wish  it." 

^Both  arose,  descended  the  stairs,  passed  through  the  ves- 
tibule, and  opening  a  door  to  the  left,  entered  the  very 
plainest  of  convent  parlors.  The  only  occupant  was  a  gen- 
tleman, stalwart  and  tall,  in  undress  military  uniform,  bronzed 
and  mustached,  and  looking  wonderfully  out  of  place  within 
those  monastic  walls.  He  rose  as  they  entered,  bowed  low 
to  the  stately  superior ;  and,  crossing  the  room,  eagerly  held 
out  his  hand  to  the  younger  lady,  who  dropped  her  eyes,  and 
colored  again,  as  she  touched  it. 

*'  I  am  very  glad  that  you  have  returned  safe  from  your 
.  dangerous   mission,  Sir   Cliff e,"   said  the  superior,  sitting 


3i6       THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CUFFE. 

down.  '*  Allow  me  to  congratulate  you  on  the  success  you 
have  achieved." 

"  You  are  very  kind,  madam  1  "  said  the  soldier,  looking 
a  little  reproachfully,  as  he  spoke,  at  the  young  lady,  who 
persistently  refused  to  meet  his  eye.  "  Can  I  not  say  two 
or  three  words  in  private  to  Miss  Shirley  ? " 

"  Undoubtedly,  sir ;  it  was  by  her  own  request  I  came  1 
Vivia,  take  a  seat  over  there  by  the  window,  and  hear  what 
your  friend  has  to  say." 

Vivia  and  the  gentleman  seated  themselves  near  the  win- 
dow as  directed ;  and  the  superior,  taking  out  a  rosary,  be- 
gan saying  her  Ave  Marias,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor, 
to  all  intents  and  purposes  a  hundred  miles  away. 

"  You  have  just  come  from  England,  I  suppose,"  said 
Vivia,  at  last  breakir'];  a  somewhat  embarrassing  pause. 

"  I  reached  Paris  an  hour  ago.  And  how  have  you  been, 
Vivia  ?  Are  you  always  going  to  be  pale  and  wan,  and  never 
get  your  roses  back  ?     I  believe  they  half  starve  you  here." 

Vivia  looked  up  with  something  like  her  old  laugh. 

"  Sister  Therese,  our  cook,  could  tell  a  different  story  1 
She  would  cook  me  p&,tk  de  fois  gras  every  day  if  I  would 
eat  them.  And  how  are  all  in  Cliftonlea — dear,  dear  old 
Cliftonlea  ?     How  often  I  have  dreamed  of  it  since  I  left !  " 

"  You  shall  see  it  again  before  the  end  of  the  week.  All 
are  well,  but  terribly  lonely  without  Vivia !  I  believe  I  have 
a  couple  of  billets  doux  for  you  somewhere." 

"  Hardly  billets-doux,  I  think,"  smiled  Vivia,  as  h**  drew 
out  his  pocketbook,  and  took  from  between  the  leaves  two 
dainty  little  missives,  one  three-cornered,  rose-colored,  and 
perfumed  ;  the  other  in  a  plain  white  envelope.  Vivia  smiled 
again  as  she  looked  at  the  first.  • 

"  Lady  Agnes  will  always  be  elegant ;  I  could  tell  this  was 
hers  in  Tartary  !  "  she  said,  as  she  broke  it  open  and  glanced 
over  its  brief  contents.     Very  brief  they  were : 

"  My  Darling  : — Con\e  back.  I  have  been  dying  of  en- 
nui since  you  left*  Nothing  in  the  world  could  have  made 
me  so  happy  as  to  know  you  are  to  be  my  daughter  after 
all.       .  A.  S." 


Vivia  glanced  shyly  up  ;  and  seeing  the  grave  smiling  eyes 


THE  FAI.I.  OF  THE  CURTAIN. 


317 


bent  upon  her,  blushed,  and  opened  the  other  without  a 
word: 

"  My  Dear  Cousin  : — Try  and  forgive  me  for  the  past — 
I  never  can  forgive  myself.  Sometimes,  in  your  prayers, 
remember  Margaret  Shirley." 


"  Your  letters  are  somewhat  shorter  than  those  ladies 
usually  write,"  her  companion  said,  with  his  grave  smile ; 
but  Vivia's  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"  Poor  Margaret  1  dear  Margaret  1  I  hope  she  is  happy 
in  her  convent  1     When  did  you  see  her  ?  " 

**  Yesterday.  And  if  one  might  judge  by  faces,  she  is  as 
happy  as  it  is  in  her  nature  to  be.  Poor  Tom's  death  was 
a  terrible  shock  to  her ;  she  saw  him  when  he  was  brought 
in  riddled  with  Russian  bullets  1  " 

"  Did  she  ? " 

She  was  sitting  with  averted  face,  her  eyes  shaded  by  her 
hands,  and  Sir  ClifFe  went  on : 

"  You  heard,  of  course,  he  was  dead,  but  you  never  heard 
the  particulars.  Poor  fellow  !  shall  I  ever  forget  that  half 
an  hour  before  he  was  talking  to  me,  sound  and  well,  in  my 
tent  ?     But  these  things  are  merely  the  fortunes  of  war." 

"  Go  on  !  "  Vivia  said,  softly. 

"  We  were  expecting  an  engagement,  and  my  post  was  one 
of  imminent  danger  ;  and  not  knowing  what  the  result  might 
be,  I  was  making  a  few  arrangements  in  case  the  worst 
should  happen.  It  was  then  for  the  first  time  I  told  him  how 
I  had  called  here  when  en  route  for  the  seat  of  war,  the  ques- 
tion I  asked  you,  and  the  answer  my  good  little  Vivia  gave. 
As  he  heard  it,  he  laid  his  head  down  on  the  table  as  he  did 
once  before,  I  remember,  when  I  gave  him  your  note  in  per- 
son ;  and  those  were  the  last  words  we  ever  exchanged. 
The  engagement  began,  a  forlorn  hope  was  storming  a  breach 
in  the  wall,  and  had  been  hurled  back  again  and  again  by 
a  rain  of  bullets,  until  they  were  half  cut  to  pieces,  and  no 
one  could  be  found  to  lead  them  again.  Then  it  was  that 
Tom  sprung  from  the  ranks  with  a  cheer,  and  a  wild  cry  of 
*  Come  on,  lads  I  '  that  rings  in  my  ears  even  now.  In  one 
instant  he  scaled  the  wall,  in  another  he  had  fallen  back, 


3i8      THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTLE  CLIFFE. 

pierced  with  a  score  of  Russian  balls,  but  the  last  trial  suc- 
ceeded, and  the  breach  was  won  1  " 

Vivia  did  not  speak,  but  he  could  see  how  fast  the  tears 
were  falling  through  the  hands  that  covered  her  face. 

"  When  they  came  to  bury  him,"  concluded  the  colonel, 
hastily,  *•  they  found  in  his  breast,  all  torn  and  shattered,  a 
little  book  you  had  once  given  him,  and  within  it  the  note 
you  sent  him  in  prison.  Poor  Tom  1  they  buried  him  with 
military  honors,  but  the  shock  of  seeing  him  nearly  killed 
Margaret." 

Still  Vivia  could  do  nothing  but  weep.  Her  companion 
looked  at  her  anxiously. 

*'  I  ought  not  to  have  told  you  this  story — such  horrors 
are  not  for  your  ears." 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes  ;  it  is  better  I  should  know  it  1  Poor  Tom  1 
poor  Margaret  1  " 

"  Do  not  think  of  it  any  longer  1  1  have  a  thousand 
tilings  to  say  to  you,  and  no  time  to  say  one  of  t'  <^m.  Do 
you  know  I  return  to  England  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  So  soon  !  " 

"  Yes.     And  I'm  going  to  take  you  with  me." 

"  Ohl  "  exclaimed  Vivia,  with  a  little  cry  of  consternation. 
"  It  is  impossible  I     I  never  could  !  " 

"  There  is  no  such  word  as  impossible  in  my  vocabulary  1 
You  must  I  There  is  no  occasion  for  delay,  and  they  ex- 
pect us  at  home." 

"  But  it  is  so  very  sudden.     I  never  can  be  ready  1 " 

"  Permit  me  to  judge  of  that  1  What  readiness  do  you 
require  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  have  nothing  to  wear  I  "  said  Vivia,  with  a  laugh 
and  a  blush. 

"  You  can  wear  what  you  have  on — can  you  not  ? " 

"  Black  !  Nonsense — what  are  you  thinking  of  ?  No 
one  ever  heard  of  such  a  thing  1 " 

"  Very  well  1  Since  you  are  inexorable,  I  shall  appeal  to 
higher  powers,  and  see  if  they  cannot  coerce  you  into  obedi- 
ence." 

He  crossed  the  room  as  he  spoke,  and  took  a  seat  near 
the  superior,  who  lifted  her  eyes  inquiringly  from  the  carpet 
pattern.     '     -  ^ 

^'"  Madame,  business  obliges  me  to  return  to  England  to- 


THE  FALJU  OF  THE  CURTAIN. 


319 


morrow  ?  Is  tliere  any  valid  reason  why  Vivia  should  not 
return  with  me  ?  " 

"  It  is  very  soon,"  said  the  lady,  musingly. 

•'  True,  but  I  assure  you  the  haste  is  unavoidable,  and  as 
the  ceremony  is  to  be  strictly  private,  a  day  more  or  less 
cannot  make  much  diflferencc." 

«'  I  suppose  not.  Well,  monsieur,  it  shall  be  as  you  wish. 
Her  friend,  Madame  la  Marquise  de  St.  Hilary,  and  her 
bonne  Jeannette,  can  accompany  her  in  the  carriage,  and 
meet  you  at  the  church.  I  cannot  tell  you,  monsieur,  how 
sorry  we  all  will  be  to  part  with  her." 

So  that  matter  was  settled,  and  Monsieur  le  General  took 
his  departure  with  a  beaming  face  to  prepare  for  the  cere- 
mony of  to-morrow,  and  Mile.  Vivia  went  to  prepare  for 
it  in  her  own  way,  by  spending  the  remainder  of  the  day, 
and  long  into  the  night,  on  W\q  prie-dicti  before  the  altar. 
She  was  back  there  again  by  daydawn  tlic  next  morning  ; 
but  when  the  grand  carriage  of  the  St.  Hilarys  stopped  at 
the  convent  door  she  was  ready  in  the  simplest  and  plainest 
of  traveling-dresses  to  take  her  seat  beside  the  marquise. 
Adieu  had  been  said  to  all  her  convent  friends,  and  she  sat 
Quietly  crying  behind  her  veil,  until  they  drew  up  before 
Notre  Dame,  where  they  found  General  Shirley  and  a  few 
of  his  friends  awaiting  them.  And  then  a  very  quiet  mar- 
riage-ceremony was  performed,  and  Vivia  had  a  right  to  the 
name  of  Shirley  no  one  could  dispute  now,  and  was  sitting 
the  happiest  bride  on  earth,  beside  her  soldier-husband,  in 
the  express-train  for  Calais. 

Once  more  the  joy-bells  were  ringing  in  Cliftonlea  ;  once 
more  the  charity-children  turned  out  to  strew  the  streets  with 
flowers ;  once  more  triumphal  arches  were  raised,  and  the 
flag  of  welcome  floated  from  the  cupola  of  Castle  Cliffe ; 
once  more  bonfires  were  kindled,  fireworks  went  off,  and 
music  and  dancing,  drinking  and  feasting  were  to  be  had 
for  the  asking,  and  crowds  upon  crowds  of  well  dressed 
people  filled  the  park.  Castle  Cliflfe  from  cellar  to  battle- 
ment was  one  blaze  of  light ;  once  more  the  German  band 
came  down  from  London  to  delight  the  ears  of  hundreds  of 
guests ;  once  more  Lady  Agnes  was  blazing  resplendent  in 
velvet  and  diamonds,  and  once  more  Sir  Roland,  on  his 
gold-headed  cane,  limped  from  room  to  room,  in  spite  of  his 


320        THE  HEIRESS  OF  CASTI.E  CI.IFFE. 

gout,  in  perfect  ecstasies  at  seeing  his  pet  Vivia  again — it 
was  so  delightfully  like  the  old  times.  And  Vivia  was  there 
again,  robed  as  a  bride,  in  white  lace  and  satin,  and  orange- 
blossoms  and  jewels,  lovely  as  a  vision ;  and  this  time  the 
'bridegroom  was  nrt  absent.  He  stood  there  in  his  grand 
general's  uniform  ;  and  no  shadow  from  the  past  was  per- 
mitted to  dim  the  brightness  of  that  night.  Not  even  Lady 
Agnes  could  think  of  her  obscure  birth  ;  for  no  princess 
could  look  more  noble  and  stately  than  did  she ;  no  one 
thought  of  that  father  of  hers  who  had  broken  so  artfully 
from  jail,  and  made  his  escape  to  parts  unknown,  helped, 
rumor  said,  by  Colonel  Shirley  himself.  No  one  thought  of 
anything  but  that  the  bride  and  bridegroom  were  the  hand- 
somest and  happiest  couple  in  the  world. 

"  Come  out  here,  Vivia  I  "  he  said  to  her,  opening  a  glass 
door  leading  down  to  the  terrace  ;  "  it  is  a  lovely  night, 
•and  this  ball-room  is  oppressively  hot." 

He  drew  her  arm  within  his,  and  Sir  Cliflfe  and  Lady 
Shirley  walked  along  the  terrace  in  the  serene  moonlight. 
The  park,  looking  like  fairy-land,  lay  at  their  feet,  filled  with 
their  tenantry,  and  the  townsfolk,  and  music,  and  happy 
voices  ;  the  town  lay  quiet  and  tranquil,  looking  pretty  and 
picturesque  as  all  places  do  In  the  moonlight ;  and  far  away, 
spread  out  the  wide  sea,  its  ceaseless  waves  surging  the 
same  old  song  to  the  shore  they  had  sung  when  she  had 
heard  them  first,  a  happy,  careless  child. 

"  Dear,  dear  Cliftonlea  !  "  said  Vivia,  her  eyes  filling  with 
happy  tears.     "  How  glad  I  am  to  see  it  again  I  " 

"I  thought  you  would  not  forget  it  in  your  French  con- 
vent !  "  he  said,  laughing.  "  My  dear  little. wife,  there  is  no 
place  like  home  1 " 

"  True,  but  I  have  learned  one  thing  in  my  French  con- 
vent, that  favor  is  deceitful,  and  beauty  is  vain,  and  that 
after  all,  mon  ante  /  "  pointing  upward,  "  there  is  the  true 
/faine  !  " 

He  did  not  speak.  He  only  lifted  the  lovely  hand  rever- 
ently to  his  lips ;  and  in  silence  the  bronzed  soldier  and  his 
pretty  bride  stood  on  the  terrace  watching  the  young  moon 
rise*  '■  ~^   '      '  -■<■■■' 


THE   END. 


,■-         V. 


■'.fC^> 


